


The Sheep Whisperer

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hot Chocolate, Kissing, M/M, New Year's Eve, Puppies, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sheep, Slow Burn, Snow, Wales, Welsh Male Voice Choir, carpentry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8614981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: A modern romantic comedy AU. With sheepdogs. A reluctant Arthur sets out to meet his sister in South Wales for a New Year party. But instead, the broken satellite navigation system leads him to a ramshackle cottage, a trio of sheepdog puppies, and a brush with hypothermia. Not to mention the most glorious hot chocolate Arthur has ever tasted, and happiest of all, a scruffy local farmer with killer cheekbones and a sideline in flirtatious banter.But even as the hot chocolate thaws Arthur’s body and Merlin’s clumsy flirting melts his heart, dark clouds are amassing on the horizon...





	1. Gwanwyn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rotrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/gifts).



> Dearest Rotrude, I was so excited when I was given my assignment! I totally adore the consistently fantastic work you have gifted to this fandom. Your prompts really hit all my feel-good buttons. This little fic is for you, with my thanks and my hope that you like the outcome. With eternal gratitude to my ever-patient beta reader, A, for the encouragement, corrections and pearls of wisdom; to arse-kicker, M, for well-timed nudging and warm words; and to my kind pre-reader, M, for some much-needed perspective. 
> 
> Dear Moderators. Enormous thanks and all the kudos to you for organising this wonderful fest again. For Camelot!

_Gwanwyn (Spring)_

 

~~~

_The great farmhouse has fallen on hard times. Abandoned, with birds and squirrels nesting in its roof and vegetation slowly encroaching, the house stares across the valley whose name it bears._

_The kitchen garden, now given over to weeds, surrounded by a crumbling wall, still bears the remnants of past use. A rosemary bush, waist-high, pushes out aromatic needles. Daffodils peep between the brambles, bobbing in the breeze as they reach towards the sun._

_Decaying now, the once majestic home has stayed in one family for generations, its origins lost beyond the veil of time._ Tyn y Cym _, they call it: the house in the valley. The local history society prizes it for its medieval foundations, and archaeologists for the brooding longbarrow that tops the hill behind it. But few now remember that it once bore another, older name:_ Dŷ Yr Dewin _._

_The House of the Sorcerer._

~~~

“Stupid fucking car.” Ignoring the numbness of his extremities, Arthur kicked the front tyre. Given his current position in the middle of a ford, with ice-cold streamwater gurgling past his ankles, this action raised a great splash that spattered across the lime-green paintwork of Guinevere’s car, drenching him in the process. “Stupid fucking road, stupid fucking sat-nav.” He punctuated each phrase with a deftly aimed kick, beyond caring about his painfully cold feet and ruined, custom-made brogues. “Stupid, fucking _snow_.”

Deep within the car, he could still hear the dry tones of the satellite navigation system declaring, “You have reached your destination.”

“Reached my destination? My arse!”

Bellowing and raising his fists, he bashed the roof vehemently as he launched into a long rant about meddling sisters, well-meaning personal assistants, and lying car mechanics, by the end of which he was soaking wet and shivering. He rounded off this tirade with a well-aimed kick to the driver’s side door, noting with satisfaction the dent he created. But in all important respects, his situation had not improved.

No, here he still was, stranded knee deep in the middle of an icy stream, half way to no-where, south Wales, with no mobile phone signal and nothing but a useless lime-green vintage Volkswagen Beetle for shelter. What sort of god-forsaken place had fords these days anyway? What was wrong with a bridge?

He should have known that sat-nav was dodgy, from the way Morgana  smirked at him when she lent it to him. It was Guinevere’s car, but Morgana had supplied the sat-nav, the dragon, as she called it, which dictated his route all the way here. He should have known not to trust it when the roads got this bad. He’d have been better off using his phone, or asking some local for help.

Shit! That water was cold. Bloody Morgana!

He was just preparing to wade out of the ford, abandoning Guinevere’s sorry excuse for a vehicle to its fate, or the AA, if they would deign to come up this stupid single-track lane, when, as if summoned by his curses, Morgana’s ring tone sounded from his pocket. Pulling out his phone with slippery, cold hands, he gazed at it, jabbing at the green button with his finger, but it winked out as the signal disappeared.

“Call failed,” it said, helpfully.

Fucking thing. He jabbed at it again, cursing, and somehow it slipped from his palm into the icy depths of the river.

“I’m going to die here, aren’t I?” he said, out loud, as he fished around for his now-dead device. The temperature of the water sent searing, icy pains shooting through his hands. “Alone, stranded, and hypothermic. That bloody witch.”  Standing, still phoneless, he placed both hands on the roof of the car and bashed his head against it, which hurt more than he’d expected. “Ow.”

“Ahem.” A quiet voice interrupted Arthur’s grim thoughts. “Are you all right?” Nearby, dogs barked loudly, as if in counterpoint.

He’d thought he’d been completely alone, but as he peered through the gloom under the dank evergreens that overhung the ford, he could just about make out the shadowy figure of a man, further up the road, with two dogs by his feet. Some local youth, no doubt, here to laugh at him.

Arthur groaned. As if his situation could possibly get any worse. An audience for his humiliation was the last thing he needed.

“Go away,” he said, aiming a final vicious kick at the car’s front bumper. “I’m fine.”

But as luck would have it, his other foot found a patch of slippery algae, and slid out from under him. Arms windmilling in a vain attempt to stop himself from overbalancing, he landed with a heavy splash. Water washed over him in icy waves, even as a jolt of pain went shooting up through his rump to his already pounding skull.

“Fuck!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Bastards!”

“Hey, come on, let’s get you out of here before the snow starts in earnest.” The stream gurgled around the rhythmic splash of watery footsteps. "You're not from round here, are you? London, is it?" Strong arms slid under his armpits, and hauled him, struggling, to his feet. The cacophony of barking remained by the side of the stream. The dogs were evidently far too sensible to enter the water. Arthur didn’t blame them.

“It's very kind of you, but really, I’m fine, please leave me alone,” said Arthur, scowling, although a small voice in his head told him that he wasn’t.

“Of course you are,” said the voice, far too cheerily. An arm snaked round Arthur’s waist, and started to tug him towards the side of the stream. “You London types do have some weird habits, I know,” it went on. “Paying good money to jump off buildings and out of aeroplanes and crawling around in the mud and all that. But fighting inanimate objects in the middle of a stream while it’s snowing is a new one on me! Did you pay a lot for the experience? I’d have a go at the organisers, if I were you. They haven’t given you the right clothes for it, have they? You’ll catch your death out here. How about a nice cup of hot chocolate and some dry clothes up at the cottage? And I’ll bring the tractor down here when it stops snowing, we’ll have that car out of here in a jiffy...”

“It’s all right, I’m fine, you don’t have to...” grumbled Arthur, even as he was hauled, shivering up the steep road out of the ford, the ticking of the dogs’ claws muffled by the snow. “I don’t need any help!”

As he spoke he realised that he was lying.  Without his phone, he could kiss goodbye to all hope of contacting the AA - and if he didn’t get to Pontardawe by eight o’clock, Morgana would actually cut his balls off. Fact. He took a quick look at his Rolex - as much to reassure himself that it was still working as anything else. It was already nearly three in the afternoon, it would be getting dark soon.  

“Are you turning down my hot chocolate?” The man’s voice had a warm lilt to it, a hint of Welsh accent. “I’ll have you know it’s the best hot chocolate in the valleys. It’s been brewing for two hours, a New Year’s Eve treat, but my mate’s just phoned to say he can’t get his car out of his drive, the snow’s already too thick, see. So it’s just you and me.”

“Actually, a hot chocolate does sound pretty good,” admitted Arthur, his breath sending clouds out into the cold and gloom. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, there was a bitter chill seeping into his bones, sapping his energy, making his jaw tremble and his hands shudder. He shoved his hands into his pockets to stop them shaking, but that just seemed to set his shoulders off. A distant, clinical part of him started whispering words like pneumonia and frostbite. “And if you wouldn’t mind letting me use your phone… As long as you’re not some sort of serial killer or something.”

“Only on Mondays,” said the bloke, chuckling. “Lucky for you, it’s Saturday. Come on. I’m Merlin, by the way. Let’s get those posh clothes of yours dry while we’re at it. Can’t have you passing away from hypothermia, now, can we?”

“I’m Arthur,” he replied automatically, shivering as the wind sliced through his sodden clothes. “And… thanks.”

Merlin dragged Arthur’s arm around a pair of skinny shoulders. Together, they lumbered on. Arthur’s legs and toes were numb. His feet, clad in flat-soled leather shoes, skidded on a thickening layer of snow. As they left the shelter of the trees and trudged up the hill, the snow came down hard, great thick clumps of it, settling on the walls and the road and the grey, mist-shrouded hillside. Whirling flakes filled the air, obscuring the landscape so that earth and sky merged.

The pair of border collies that had arrived with them ran on ahead, their breaths gusting pale clouds into the air. One of them was patchy, black and brown with streaks of pale fur, and a beard that lent him a roguish air. The other, though a handspan taller, seemed happy to trot along in his wake.

“That’s the spirit,” said Merlin, from beneath a scruffy, though warm-looking beanie hat and waxed jacket. A scarf adorned his neck and heavy-looking, workmanlike gloves protected his hands. His wellington boots crump-crumped through the snow. “Nearly there. Keep going, now!”

“Mmm,” said Arthur from between chattering teeth, envious of Merlin’s warm clothes and dry feet.

“Stop dawdling!” Merlin frowned at him, a deep wrinkle dividing his brows.

“M’not,” said Arthur, stumbling over a stone and nearly slipping right over again.

They rounded a corner. Merlin pulled the latch on a sturdy metal gate, which he pushed open. It protested loudly, squealing on unoiled hinges. A dark-grey slate sign on the gate proclaimed _Tyn y Pant_ in faded gold lettering. The gate led to a scruffy-looking farmyard. The relentless cold that stung Arthur’s nostrils didn’t disguise the farm’s warm, barnyard scent. From a nearby outhouse, hens clucked.

Arthur’s fingers had lost all feeling now and his skin stung where wet clothes clung to him. Once through the gate, his feet slithered out from beneath him, and his arms windmilled, but Merlin tightened his grip on his waist, preventing him from falling again.

“Whoa there!” said Merlin. His cheeks were pink, and vivid blue eyes peeped out from beneath a clump of snow-flecked black hair. He smiled, warmth crinkling at the corner of his eyes. “Skating again, are we? Save that for the ice rink!”

“Thanks,” Arthur muttered, trying to return the smile, although his face was so frozen it probably was more like a grimace. He probably should be worried about accepting hospitality from a complete stranger, but something about Merlin’s cheery demeanor settled him.

“You’re welcome.”

Carefully they walked, feet slipping with every step, up to the door of a tiny, slate-roofed cottage, set about with snow-draped vines that obscured the bricks around the lintel. A grey stone step led up to the black oak door. Tendrils of smoke drifted down from its chimney, swirling about the yard, adding the tang of sulphur and coal to the normal farmyard aroma. The collies darted and chased each other about with scant regard for the whirling snowflakes that settled in cold-looking clumps on their fur.  

Arthur stood, hugging himself against the wind, as he waited for Merlin to unlock the cottage door.

“It’s open,” said Merlin softly. He pressed at the door handle and pushed hard. The wood dragged heavily across stone flags. Loud barks emanated from within. The two dogs by their side woofed out a reply and raced in through the gap.

“Quiet, Gwaine! Hush, Percival! Shush, Elena!”  Merlin shouted. The din lessened immediately. Turning to Arthur, he added, “It’s all right, they’re very obedient really. Quick, come in and close the door, don’t let the heat out! It’s cold outside!”

“You don’t say,” said Arthur, stepping over the threshold into a cluttered but cosy space between two doors, with just enough room for the two of them. He pushed hard at the door behind him. It closed with a protesting groan, just as the two excitable dogs jumped up at him. His first instinct was to stop the dogs from getting pawprints on his Zegna chinos, but then, realising that he’d probably already ripped them when he sat in the river, he gave up, sighing.

“Don’t jump, boys!” admonished Merlin. “Go and lie down, now!”

The two dogs subsided through the other door, whining, tails thumping audibly on the floor.

“Good boys,” added Merlin, poking his head round the door into the cottage before turning back to Arthur. “Sorry about that. They’re not used to strangers, I’ve tried to train them out of it but they forget, sometimes, see. Anyway, you’d better get those wet things off.” He stamped to get the snow off his boots, as he hung his coat and hat on a peg.

When Merlin had toed off his wellies, he hopped over the threshold through the other doorway into the dark interior, tripping on something that yelped in protest, and launched head first into the room, arms flailing, with a cry of pain.

“Merlin?” said Arthur, alarmed, heart pounding, peeping through the opening into the darkness of a tiny, cluttered living-room. An open fire flickered in the hearth, filling the room with a warm glow, and a miniature Christmas tree flashed red, blue and green. It was a far cry from the 20-foot, designer tree, all frosted silver baubles and pale-white lights, that adorned his father’s hallway, but somehow all the cosier for that. “Are you all right?”

“Ow! Fuck! Sorry Gwaine,” Merlin said. He stood up, grinning over his shoulder. “I’m just a bit clumsy, that’s all? Mind the step down. You’d think I would have got used to it by now. Oh, and try not to step on Gwaine’s tail. He doesn’t like it.”

“Clumsy idiot,” said Arthur, smiling in relief. "I thought you'd been attacked by a burgler!"  

“Cheeky!” said Merlin without heat. “Look, you’re freezing. Leave your soaking wet clothes in the porch. I’ll come back and sort them out. Come on, Gwaine, Percy! Where’s Elena? Where are Idris, Aithusa and Lambton? Find them then! Where are your treats? Fetch them then!” He disappeared for a second time, amid the clatter of claws on stone and the heavy _huh-a-huh-a-huh_ of doggy panting.

Arthur was left alone, shivering in the tiny porch area, melting snow dripping off his hair, down his back, and forming an icy puddle at his feet. He pulled at the buttons of his soft wool and cashmere jacket, but his fingers were as much use as a bunch of cold bananas. By the time Merlin had returned, arms full of dry clothes and blankets, Arthur was still struggling with the last button, and his patience, never his strongest virtue, had vanished along with his temper.

“Fucking thing,” he said, pulling a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Here.” Merlin stepped into Arthur’s personal space and slid deft fingers into the buttonholes, his breath gusting warm against Arthur’s stinging cheeks. His soft-eyed gaze dropped to Arthur’s lips as he spoke. “I’ve heard of stiff upper lip, but this is ridiculous. You posh types have no sense of preservation.”

“Thanks for the critique,” said Arthur, barking out a surprised laugh. “You farmer types have no manners.”

“Touche!" Merlin chuckled and continued stripping Arthur’s clothes off as efficiently as if he did it every day. He dropped the sodden jacket into a tangled heap on the floor.

“Hey, careful, that’s Armani!” protested Arthur.

“I’m sorry, mate, but Armani or no, at the moment it’s standing between you and a warm, dry blanket.” Unruffled, Merlin yanked at Arthur’s belt buckle. “These need to come off.”

“I know!” With trembling fingers, Arthur fumbled with his trouser button, breathing hard, humiliated beyond all reason. “Fucking fingers. Fucking trousers. Ugh.”

“It’s all right.” Merlin’s voice soothed. “I normally wait until the second date before removing a man’s clothes, but I’ll make an exception this time.”

“Good.” Frowning, Arthur replayed what Merlin had just said, and heat crept up his cheeks. Was this farmer flirting with him?

“After all,” Merlin carried on, head tilted to one side, his teeth very white in the dim light filtering through the window in the door. “It’s not often that I end up with a posh, semi-naked damsel in distress on my doorstep. I have to make the most of it!”

“Damsel?” Despite his predicament, Arthur laughed again. Definitely flirting. “I’ve been called many things in my life, but that one’s a first!”

"Well, I've always fancied being a knight in shining armour." Grinning back, Merlin dealt deftly with the zip of Arthur’s fly and started on the buttons of his shirt, eyes focussed on Arthur’s chest.

Arthur bit his lip and looked at a space to the left of Merlin’s shoulder.

“The strong, silent type I see.” Merlin chattered on, seemingly unconcerned with Arthur’s lack of response. He patted Arthur on the shoulder. “There. I’ve done the zips and buttons. You can do the rest.”

“Erm.” Arthur croaked. “Do you mind helping with my shoes? If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Ha!“ Merlin’s laugh sent puffs of warm air gusting across Arthur’s face. “Certainly, your majesty.” He bent, darting a glance at Arthur’s open fly. “You’re lucky. I normally wait until the third or fourth date before I get down on my knees…”

“Merlin!” Mortified, Arthur buried his head in his hands, peeping down between his fingers at Merlin’s shaggy, inky locks. It was an arresting image. “God! Are you always this forward?”

“Straight, then? Shame.” Merlin stood up, mischief glittering in his eyes. “Still, it was worth a try,” he added, before Arthur had time to work out how to answer him without seeming a little forward himself. “Right, then. I promise I won’t watch while you get the rest of your clothes off. Well, I might peep a little. But to be honest that wet shirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination--”

Arthur couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, even as he shucked off his shirt and stepped out of his shoes and trousers, standing on one leg to remove his socks, until he was stripped down to his underpants. But goosebumps still pimpled his skin. He trod down a stone step, bare-foot, onto the wooden floor, shivering.

“Here you go.” As he entered the tiny room, Merlin draped a blanket over his shoulders and handed him a towel. “Wrap this round you while you're getting some dry togs on. I hope you’re not allergic to cat fur. This blanket is lovely and warm but I’m afraid it might be a bit furry, Freya may be short-haired but she sheds a lot.”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”  Arthur drew the blanket round him, revelling in its warmth, and with the towel he rubbed vigorously at himself underneath.

Peering into the gloom, he made out by light of the blinking Christmas tree a worn, unmatched chair and sofa, and a cluttered coffee table. A large black cat, sitting on the chair, fixed him with one baleful eye for a moment before slipping back into slumber.

“Freya, off.” Merlin bundled the cat into his arms and dumped her unceremoniously on the floor. “Come and dry off by the fire, Arthur. I’ll get you a hot chocolate and the phone. And then you can tell me how you managed to get stuck in the ford. Or perhaps you’d like a hot shower? I can put on the immersion heater, it’ll only take ten minutes to warm up. Or do you need the loo? It’s upstairs… ”

“I’m fine for now, thanks,” said Arthur. A hot shower sounded nice, but he wasn’t sure how hot it would be after ten minutes on an immersion heater, and he didn’t want to put Merlin out or delay too long before getting on the phone to the AA.

“It’s ok, the cottage may be old but it’s got a new gas heater and the plumbing’s pretty good,” added Merlin, as if he’d read Arthur’s thoughts.

“Thanks.” Arthur chuckled. “I have to confess you read my mind.”

The displaced cat stretched and mewled out a protest before stalking over to a set of wooden stairs, tail erect. Arthur took her place, holding out his numb hands towards the fire, lifting his toes off the threadbare rug. He leant forward to massage them, in a vain attempt to get some feeling back into them. “Maybe a bit later?”

“Here.” Merlin was back again with a pair of woolly socks.

He knelt to pull them on Arthur’s feet, chattering all the while about the vile weather, about Christmas, about how he’d “ _had to go out into the field with the tractor that morning to check that there was enough shelter for the Welsh Mountain ewes, those were his sheep, by the way, they were hardy little things, his girls, but he didn’t want them to get buried, haha. Fell over in the snow, he did. Got his bum right wet. He’d go back a bit later to put some tyre tracks in the snow for them to get to their fodder. And here he was getting Arthur’s clothes back on. Crying shame, it was, covering that fit body up, if you asked him, but those toes were starting to go blue and it would have been silly to let such nice feet get frostbite, now, wouldn’t it?”_

Arthur should have felt uncomfortable, self-conscious, letting another man dress him as if he was a baby, but Merlin’s clumsiness, his matter-of-fact manner, concern for his flock, and off-colour jokes lent the whole situation a surreal sense of normality.

“You'll be more comfortable if you take those off, and put these on instead," said Merlin, nodding at Arthur's underpants, and proffering a pair of dry boxers. "I'd offer to put them on for you, but..." 

"I can manage!" said Arthur, hastily. 

"Fine! So what brings you here?” Merlin turned his back, giving Arthur a bit of privacy. “Apart from the irresistible urge to park in the river and go wading, in the depths of a winter snowstorm, of course? I’ve heard of people like you with your weird adventure sports. They’ve got an event for you, over in Llanwyrtyd Wells, World Alternative Games it’s called… but normally they do it in the summer...”

“My stepsister.” Arthur sighed. In that single, long exhale lay a wealth of feelings that he couldn’t bring himself to articulate.

Checking that Merlin’s back was still turned, he hastily shucked off his damp Versace underpants, pulling on what looked like a serviceable pair of cheap boxers. They were a bit close-fitting, but warm and dry, which was all that mattered. Morgana had given him the Versaces for Christmas, and now they had a jagged hole in the bum area. Great. She was definitely going to kill him. He wondered for a second if the fall had broken his skin, but decided he really didn’t want to ask Merlin to have a look.

“Are you decent?” Merlin peeped over his shoulder. “You are. Damn. Oh well, pop these on.”

Turning, Merlin handed him a pair of jogging bottoms and gazed appreciatively at Arthur’s bare chest until heat crept up Arthur’s cheeks again and he had to cough to cover his confusion.

“Do you mind?” said Arthur, failing to sound stern as he lifted his foot to wriggle into the trousers. “Stop ogling!”

“Sorry!” Merlin grinned and let his gaze drop a little towards Arthur’s bare thighs. “Oops!”

“Oh, stop it, you’re not remotely regretful,” said Arthur, putting his hands in front of his groin in mock-modesty. “Pervert.”

“Gotta take the crumbs that mother nature leaves me,” said Merlin. “It’s not easy, you know, being the only gay in the village.” His voice lilted in a passable rendition of a TV comedy character.

Arthur laughed.

“So,” Merlin carried on, sitting on the edge of the sofa with his arms folded. “You were saying. Your step-sister brought you here? How come she abandoned you in the middle of the ford?”

“Morgana?” Shrugging, Arthur cast around for the words to describe Morgana, and failed. “Despite being an actual witch who drives both me and my father insane, she’s probably the closest family I’ve got.” He bent to pull the trousers up round his bum. “Anyway, she’s hired a cottage for New Year in some place near here called Pontardawe, and booked dinner somewhere ridiculously expensive, and told me to be there. I don’t particularly want to spend New Year’s Eve with her, but it was that or spend it with my father, and this seemed like the lesser of two evils.”

“Pont-a-dor?” said Merlin, cocking his head on one side with a smirk. “Do you mean Pontar-dar-wee?”

“Pontardawe, that’s it,” said Arthur, trying out the unfamiliar Welsh pronunciation. “Anyway, my Por-- car’s not ready, long story.” He flushed at his near slip, not wanting to let on that he had a Porsche, or who he really was. He couldn’t help it, a selfish part of him was really loving just being Arthur for once, and being looked after just out of kindness rather than the hope of reciprocation. “So I have my pers-- my friend’s car, and my sister’s stupid sat-nav. And it brought me here. Stupid route, right? The sat-nav’s obviously been programmed really badly. It probably happens all the time? I expect you’re forever hauling stranded HGVs out of the river?”

“Nope!” said Merlin, cheerily. “You’re the first, to be honest. Still, I’m not complaining.” He tilted his head on one side. “Even if you’re straight, and posh, you’ve definitely brightened my day!”

“Oh!” Arthur, grateful for the darkness that hid his deepening blush. “About that…” He was about to correct Merlin’s assumption, but Merlin was still talking.

“Now, about that hot chocolate!” he said. “I’ve got some on the go. Secret recipe, handed down from generation to generation, you know. It’s been brewing for a couple of hours, should be perfect. Is there anything you’re allergic to? I’d hate to poison you...”

“Thanks,” said Arthur. “I’ve got an ox’s constitution. To be honest, as long as you haven’t laced it with sheep-dip, or cough liniment, or whatever, I’ll be fine,”

“Sheep dip?” said Merlin, mock-indignantly. “We haven’t used that in the hot chocolate in these parts since 1962, I’ll have you know!” He bustled away, leaving Arthur pink-cheeked and shivering.  

While Merlin clattered cupboards and cups in an adjacent room, Arthur checked his watch again. The time was nudging perilously close to half past three, and the light that trickled through the blinds was fading fast. He ground his teeth together in frustration. Morgana would kill him if he was late, but he had no idea how long it would take for the AA to pull Guinevere’s car out of the stream. He needed to get to a phone, and fast.

When Merlin returned with two huge, steaming mugs in his hands, Arthur was pacing around the room, looking for a phone.

“Here,” said Merlin, shoving one pint-sized mug into his hands. Cartoon sheep decorated the mug, which also bore a sign that read _SHEEPDIP! DRINK WITH CARE._  “Drink this up quick. It’ll sort you out in a jiffy and then you can get back to defrauding pensioners or whatever it is you posh types do for a living.”

“Such touching concern,” said Arthur, laughing out loud at the mug and at Merlin’s quip. The smell rising from the mug was heavenly. He buried his nose into the mug with a groan, taking a tentative slurp. It was the perfect temperature, and just the right mixture of sweet and smooth. It slid into his throat like hot nectar. He groaned again. “Oh my God. This is incredible.”

“I’ve never had any complaints.” Merlin smirked.

“It’s amazing. This texture… I’ve never tasted anything like it. What’s your secret?” Cupping the drink between tingling hands, Arthur gulped down great mouthfuls that warmed his belly and chest, making his cheeks glow.

The sensation pulled another deep, satisfied moan from him.

“Wow!” said Merlin, eyes round in the dim light. “I knew it was good but I’ve never had quite that reaction before!” His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head on one side slyly. “Well, not from a drink, anyway!”

“What? Oh!” Realising how he must have sounded, Arthur flushed again, grateful that it was too dark for Merlin to see. Nonplussed by Merlin’s scrutiny, he straightened up and schooled his features into an expression of stern gratitude as he fished around for a change of subject. Adopting a formal tone to hide his confusion, he added, “Erm. You’ve been incredibly generous. I hate to prevail on you any further, but do you mind if I use your phone?”  

“No, of course I don’t,” said Merlin, smile fading. He swept a pile of old newspapers off the coffee table to reveal an ancient, corded phone. “Go ahead!

“Thanks. You’ve been beyond kind,” said Arthur, swallowing to tamp down an unexpected pang of disappointment. Realising that he didn’t know Morgana’s mobile number, he did what he should have done ages ago, and started to dial Guinevere’s. More a friend than a PA, Guinevere had lent him Oswald, her beloved, if cranky Volkswagen, and it was time that he confessed where he had left it, and grovelled for a while until she forgave him.

“I’m just going to check on the girls out in the top field,” said Merlin, backing away, face hidden in the gloom. “Won’t be long.” He strode over to the kitchen and opened the door a notch. “Gwaine? Percival? Come along! Not you, Elena!”

Two canine figures slid through the tiny gap, tails swishing, light glinting on wet noses, and followed Merlin as he donned his gear and headed back out into the cold, tripping up the stone step with a curse.

Unfortunately, Guinevere was in a voluble mood, so by the time Arthur had explained what had happened to her car, apologised, promised her a brand new VW, and got the number for the AA and for Morgana down on a post-it note, the light had failed completely outside. Merlin was nowhere to be seen. From behind the kitchen door, increasingly loud barks were accompanied by tiny, high pitched whines and an insistent scratching.

Bracing himself for the inevitable abuse from Morgana, Arthur picked up the receiver, and was about to dial when a sudden, high-pitched yelp from the kitchen made him change his mind.

Letting up the latch, pushed open the door a notch, to see what was going on. He fumbled at the wall for a light switch. Finding one eventually, he flicked it up. A pale bulb flashed on, flickering as if poorly connected. Merlin would need to screw that in a bit better soon, or the bulb would go completely.

A tiny puppy sat on the other side, its tail thumping the floor. The dog was completely white, apart from a black patch over one eye. Intelligent blue eyes blinked up at Arthur, and the dog stood up, forepaws against the door.

“Hey now,” said Arthur, crouching, trying not to let the puppy escape into the lounge. “Shh!”

The dog’s outsized ears cocked, following the sound of his voice.

He bent to pet it, but  the movement was arrested by a low growl from the corner of the kitchen. An adult border collie was lying panting in a large dog-basket, watching him, and two other pups lay curled up beside her, fast asleep.

“You must be Elena. Are you mum, then? It’s all right,” he said in a quiet voice, making his movements slow and gentle. “I won’t hurt your pup. She just wanted to say hello, didn’t you, pup?”  

The fur on the puppy’s ears slid fluffy and warm against his fingers. She barked at him, tiny little yips, and licked, rough-tongued, at his hand.

“Come on.” Arthur chuckled and bent to scoop her up, her little belly hot against his still-cold hands. Padding sock-footed to the basket, he put her next to her mother.

Elena barked out her thanks and lay her head upon the soft down blanket.

Spying an empty food bowl and an empty water bowl, he turned to find something for tired-looking mum to eat. The kitchen was not more than a short, cupboard lined corridor. The first cupboard he tried was stuck fast. He tugged at it until it came free, and it scraped as it opened.

“Needs a bit of sandpaper and some WD40,” he said to Elena as he closed it. Half-open cereal packets lurked within, but no dog food. “Maybe what you’d like is in the next cupboard?”  

She whined in response, lifting an eyebrow, as if she had understood his words. And maybe she had? Border collies were known for their intelligence, after all. The puppies nuzzled at her, suckling. It must be thirsty work for her, feeding them all.

Upon the work surface was a large crock-pot, steam gently wafting through the vent. It was a slow-cooker, much like the one that his nanny had used when he was small, to make stews and pot-roasts that cooked while she was out with him at his music lessons or fencing lessons. Curious, he undid the clips and lifted the lid. A delicious, chocolatey aroma filled his nostrils, and he inhaled, humming his approval. There was still plenty of the dark-brown nectar left in the pot, no doubt originally intended for Merlin’s simple New Year celebration. Taking a spoon from the work surface, he dipped it in, blowing on it for a second before sliding it between his lips, groaning at the sweet heat that flooded his mouth. Delicious. He must ask Merlin for the recipe so he could give it to his valet, George.

Reluctantly, he put the lid back on and opened another cupboard or two. After he’d found the dog food, and filled up the water bowls, it was evidently growing even stormier outside, because when a heavy gust of wind slammed against the corner of the cottage, the bare bulb that lit the ceiling flickered ominously, and an icy blast howled through a broken pane in the back door, bringing snow spilling through the gap.

Arthur bit his lip. He really needed to phone the AA and find out how long they would take so that he could tell his sister what time he’d arrive.

Elena barked at him, tongue lolling out, looking for all the world as if she was smiling.

“All right,” he said. “You’re right. I’ll phone them.”

She settled her head on her forepaws, and licked at a large shinbone.

But that was when it hit him. He didn’t actually know where he was. There was no way he could call out the breakdown service, he didn’t know where to tell them to go. He’d have to wait for Merlin to come back.

He looked at his watch. Who knows how long Merlin would take seeing to the sheep? He might as well make himself useful in the meantime. It wouldn’t take long just to screw that lightbulb in a little firmer. There was another door at the end of the kitchen, down a pair of stone steps, which looked like it might lead to a shed or outhouse or something. Maybe Merlin had some tools in there, and a bit of sandpaper. At least it would keep his mind off the inevitable bollocking he’d get from Morgana later on.

By the time Merlin returned, Arthur had taped up the broken pane with some duct tape and thick card he’d found in what looked like a pile of recycling. He’d also sanded down the sticky cereal-cupboard door, tightened the dodgy light bulb, replaced the soiled newspaper on the floor around the dog basket, donned a pair of wellies to take Elena outside into the gale to relieve herself, cleaned up the resulting mess, and settled back in the comfortable chair by the fire, with another steaming mug of hot chocolate in his hand. The room was cosy and warm, while outside the wind howled and rattled the windows, sending occasional snow flurries down the chimney to make the fire hiss and crack. What with one thing and another, it had been a heck of a day. Arthur’s eyelids started to droop.

He was awoken by Merlin clattering and stomping, with loud curses, into the porch.

“It’s vile out there.” Merlin emerged, pink-cheeked and merry eyed, a mass of canine bodies in his vanguard. The room filled with dogs loudly panting, and the wet-carpet scent of hot, damp collie. “Come on Gwaine, come Percival! In the kitchen, there’s good boys.” The kitchen door squeaked shut in his wake, and the room felt suddenly empty, until Merlin came back in, still talking nineteen to the dozen. “Thank God the ewes are hardy! I wouldn’t want to spend the night in a field in this weather. They’ve got the hedge for shelter, they should be fine, I haven’t got round to erecting a lean-to yet, they’ll have to make do. Oh, I see you’ve met Aithusa!”

“Mmm? Oh!” Arthur glanced at the puppy, who had curled up on his lap, fast asleep, her warm little body doing more to thaw him out than even the hot chocolate had achieved. She must have followed him out of the kitchen. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to close the kitchen door. She’s kind of adopted me, to be honest! I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter.”

“That’s brilliant. Did you manage to get through to the AA?”

“No.” Arthur sighed. “Kind of difficult to call them out when I don’t know exactly where we are.”

“Shit! Sorry about that.” Merlin picked up the phone. “I’ll phone them and then maybe we will be able to get you out of here.”

“It’s okay.” As Arthur watched Merlin dial, he realised that if the breakdown truck came, that would be the last he would ever see of Merlin, not to mention little Aithusa.  A powerful sense of loss crashed down on him, making his throat close for a second. He cleared it with a harrumph. “I could have looked for clues, but I was just too tired.”

In a dark and well-hidden part of his soul, Arthur admitted the truth to himself. He didn’t want to leave. He was warm and comfortable, and as for his companion… there was something about Merlin. Something Arthur couldn’t quite name. All he knew was that, despite his ordeal with the sat nav and the ford, and despite, or maybe because of, Merlin’s outrageous flirting, he felt more relaxed in someone else’s presence than he had felt for a long time. It was as if a heavy weight on his shoulders, born of others’ expectations, had lifted. The resulting weightlessness made his head spin and his heart swell.

Merlin was watching him now, head tilted on one side, a soft smile lifting the corners of his mouth, finger poised upon the buttons of the phone.

“This New Year’s Eve party of yours,” Merlin said. “Urgent, is it?”

“Sort of.” Arthur shrugged. “Morgana’s booked some achingly hip restaurant, festooned with Michelin stars and all sorts. And the truth is, that’s really more her sort of scene than mine.”

“Then I’ve got a subversive suggestion.” Merlin put the phone back down on the receiver.  “Although obviously I’ll deny it was my idea if your terrifying sister ever appears on my doorstep threatening castration. Why don’t you stay here tonight? You’re obviously exhausted. It’s a blizzard out there. Even if the AA do manage to get up the hill, there’s no guarantee they’ll get you or your car safely back down again. I’ve got half a bottle of cointreau that will go nicely in the rest of the hot chocolate, if you’ve left any! And tell me, what have you got to look forward to if you go?”

A wild hope bloomed in Arthur’s heart.

“Look forward to?” He snorted. Fancy food, expensive wine, and a merciless tirade about his inability to stand up to his father. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

Bang on cue, a heavy gust slammed against the cottage, whistling down the chimney and sending a hail of sparks flaring out against the fire guard.

“Right then,” said Merlin firmly. “That’s settled. You can call your sister and let her know that you’re stranded. And then we’ll cook up a lamb hotpot, finish off that hot chocolate, bung a load of cointreau in it for good measure, and open up a bottle or two of local cider and see in the New Year together. What do you say?” He bent, holding out a hand for Arthur to shake.

“Truly? It sounds like a slice of heaven.” With a lopsided smile, Arthur lifted his hand from Aithusa’s pelt to take Merlin’s hand and shake it. “But you must let me give you some cash to pay for your hospitality.”

Merlin dropped his hand as if he’d been stung.

“Don’t be stupid.” He frowned. “I’m not well off, but I get by!”

“I’ve offended you.” Heat flashed across Arthur’s face. “That was not my intention. I just wanted to thank you. For all your kindness. I don’t know anyone like you in London. There’s no-one who would be prepared to drop everything for a stranger, like you have for me. They’d just look away and pretend I wasn’t there.”

“Well, we’re not like that, here in Wales.”  Merlin’s eyes were hidden in shadow.

“I can see that,” said Arthur, although he guessed that the generosity Merlin had shown him was as much a personal as a national characteristic. “I just wanted, in my clumsy way, to return your favour. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He’d forgotten, somehow, that people who didn’t have much, people who worked hard and struggled to keep their homes lit and warm, kept a ferocious pride in their hearts, like a burning fire that drove them along and made them strive to overcome the obstacles life put in their way. And they helped each other, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to reach out to their fellow human beings and lend a hand along life’s way. It was a way of life that the big cities had forgotten, and Arthur mourned it.

“Hmm. Well.” With a tight-lipped shrug, Merlin turned away. “Some things are more important than money.”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur swallowed. In his world, money was the driving force behind every transaction, and everybody had their price. But his reluctance to return to his world this evening told him a lot about how he felt about those values.

Luckily, Merlin seemed to have forgiven him for his slip, and was now treading wet footprints onto the wood floor as he padded over to the kitchen, bare-socked.

“All right, let’s get some food on, shall we?” Merlin said over his shoulder. “And what about some more hot chocolate, with a bit of booze in it?”

“Sounds good.” Arthur grinned down at Aithusa, whose legs were working against the air as she dreamed. “I wonder if Merlin’ll notice what I’ve done in the kitchen,” he added in an undertone to Aithusa, whispering the words into the downy fur of Aithusa’s ear. “Shh! No spoiling the surprise, now!”

Her eyes flicked open, and her tongue snaked out to lick him on the nose.

“Ugh.” He laughed, charmed despite himself, and rubbed the wetness off with his finger. “I deserved that.”

When he looked up again, Merlin was standing, propped against the arch of the kitchen doorway, arms folded, and frowning at Arthur as if he was a puzzle that he couldn’t work out.

“What’s the matter?” said Arthur, smile fading.

“You.” Merlin pushed off the doorframe, and strode towards him. As he approached, the soft smile that lifted his mouth became evident. “I… God. Thank you.” He raised an accusing finger that trembled slightly. “You fixed my door! Either that, or some sort of door-fixing pixie has been sneaking around, sorting out the draught!”

“Ah.” Arthur shrugged, eyes fixed on Merlin’s shaking finger. “Sorry I couldn’t do it properly. I could only find cardboard, perhaps when it’s light I’ll have a poke around for some wood, which would provide a more permanent--.”

“There you go putting yourself down.…” interrupted Merlin, huffing and looking up at the ceiling. “Whoever made you feel like you’re not good enough? God, you pretend to be such a clueless city boy, you know? And yet, there you are, you with your secret kindnesses and your insecurities. Damn you, Arthur! I don’t even know your surname and I’m half in love with you already! It’s cruel that’s what it is, breaking the hearts of unsuspecting gay Welsh farmers right, left, and centre! Clotpole!”

By the time that Arthur opened his mouth to protest that he hadn’t intended to break any Welsh hearts, farmers or otherwise, he just wanted to do something useful while Merlin was working out in the fields during a blizzard, Merlin had gone back into the kitchen and was singing a rousing Welsh tune, accompanied by thuds and rattles that indicated dinner was being made.

Half in love? This time, the warmth that spread through him had nothing to do with Aithusa or the gorgeous hot chocolate, and everything to do with the kind-hearted Welshman who owned her.  

~~~

“What do you mean you don’t think you’re going to make it? Do you have any idea how long the waiting list is for this restaurant? Cenred and Morgause managed to get here from Paris. Paris, Arthur! I can’t believe you, Arthur Pendragon.” Morgana’s voice was shrill and uncompromising. “You insist on humiliating me in front of them, you spineless, pathetic--”

Wincing, Arthur held the receiver of Merlin’s ancient corded phone out at arm’s length and waited for her to calm down a bit. Her voice wafted into the room like a high-pitched wasp drone.

“Is she always like this?” Speaking quietly, Merlin gazed at him with a wide-eyed horror that only the sisterless could ever show.

“Only about fifty percent of the time.” Arthur smiled wanly. “Otherwise she’s charming, devious and manipulative. Half the company are in love with her, the other half merely terrified.”

Merlin chuckled, turning his gaze back to a back-dated copy of Sheep Farmer magazine. A pair of black-framed spectacles perched at the end of his nose, lending him a scholarly air that made Arthur’s chest constrict a little. Meanwhile, Morgana’s voice was reaching a crescendo. It wouldn’t be long before he’d have to actually talk to her.

“Merlin?” A thought struck him. “You do have a bed, in this farm, don’t you? And you generally eat breakfast.”

“Yes?” Merlin looked up at him over his glasses with a puzzled frown. “Why?”

“Well, I need to give her a plausible explanation. And I don’t want to lie outright, so…” Arthur shrugged. “You’ll see.”

The pitch of the sounds coming out of the phone had gone down a semitone or two, indicating that she was in the aftermath of her outburst, so Arthur put it back to his ear.

“..thur? Arthur? Are you still there?”

“Morgana.” Arthur sighed, preparing to embark upon a tirade of his own. “It’s been a trial, I’m lucky not to have frostbite. I thank you for your concern about my well being after my ordeal. Wait, you didn’t show me any.”

Morgana fell silent. Arthur felt a vicious and puerile sense of victory.

“Might I remind you,” he added, “that it was you who insisted that I come despite the fact that my new Por-- car was not yet ready, it was you who insisted I borrow Guinevere’s car, despite her saying it was acting up, and it was your sat-nav that directed it to the middle of a raging torrent, thus endangering my life. And I can hardly be blamed for the weather, nor for the fact that the garage has failed to deliver. Now, thanks to the hospitality and generosity of the local farm community, and no thanks to you, I’m not spending the night in the middle of a river with my nuts freezing off and frostbite in my extremities, but instead in the comfort of a cosy Bed and Breakfast with a roaring open fire and the best hot chocolate I have ever tasted. I suggest you get off your high horse and enjoy your dinner. I’ve certainly enjoyed mine. Thank you, and good night.”

 _And piss off,_ he didn’t add. He replaced the receiver with a flourish.  

“Nice one!” Merlin grinned at him, erecting both thumbs, dancing eyes disappearing into a web of crinkles.

Smiling back, Arthur lost his train of thought for a moment. Just then, the phone rang, its harsh bell making him jump.

“Ugh. I bet that’s Morgana ringing back.” He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as the bell continued to ring. “I’m so sorry. She’ll be looking for more reasons to blame everything on me. She’s nothing if not persistent. I’m afraid that now she has your number on her phone, she’s going to hound you mercilessly.”

“Here, don’t worry,” said Merlin, leaning forward to pick up the phone. “It’s my phone, I’ll deal.”

“Are you sur--?” Arthur began.

But Merlin was already speaking.

“Hello?” he said, pausing for a moment to allow the person on the other end of the line to respond. He held out the receiver with an enquiring eyebrow. Sure enough, Morgana’s unmistakeable tones rang out shrilly down the line.

“It’s her,” mouthed Arthur, with a nod.

Returning the nod, Merlin put the receiver back to his ear.

“ _Helo? Mae'n ddrwg gen i, nid wyf yn siarad Saesneg,”_ he said _. “Mae'n hwyr. Ffoniwch yn ôl yn y bore?”_ After a moment or two, he shrugged and put the phone down.

“She hung up,” he said, smiling even wider.

“You’re smarter than you look,” said Arthur, with an admiring smile, warmth blooming in his chest. Genius. Merlin was an actual genius. “Although you do realise that you’ve just confirmed every Englishman’s secret prejudice that Welsh people only speak Welsh when they want to get rid of us.”

“Oh no,” said Merlin, peering at him over the top of his spectacles. “Now you’ve learned my country’s terrible secret! I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you, or I’ll get thrown out of Wales for treason!”

“I knew it!” Arthur laughed out loud.

At that moment, they were interrupted by a scratching at the kitchen door and a single yap.

“Oh, no.” Merlin groaned and leaned forward as if to stand up. “That’ll be Elena wanting to go outside for a minute or two. And Aithusa should go back to her. And I’d just got comfy”

“Stay there,” said Arthur, standing, clutching a sleepy Aithusa in his arms. “I’ll go. I’ll take this little mite with me and let her mum out into the yard.”

“Oh, God, thanks, I’m pooped,” said Merlin, settling back into his chair. “There are a pair of wellies by the back door.”

“I know,” said Arthur. “I’ll bring in another cup of boozy hot chocolate for you on my way back.”  

“Elevation to sainthood is assured,” said Merlin, stretching his toes out towards the fire. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do” said Arthur, closing the door softly behind him as he headed through the kitchen to brave the arctic chill outside.

~~~

Later, when the wind had died down, to the hiss and crackle of the fire, he and Merlin toasted the approaching new year with another hot chocolate and quiet conversation. It started with idle chat about the state of the weather and then drifted aimlessly from topic to topic.

Arthur felt at ease like in a way that he hadn’t for years, not since way before his father had retired in name but not intent, leaving Arthur supposedly at the helm of Pendragon Inc. At that point, Arthur had become a human ping-pong ball, bouncing between Uther and Morgana as they insisted on taking opposing sides of every argument.

But with Merlin - even the current lull in conversation had not introduced any awkwardness. It was kind of wonderful, really, quietly sitting in a simple, homely place, with no expectations or judgment, only companionable chat, and the occasional lick to the finger from Aithusa, who had crawled back onto Arthur’s lap. She’d wrapped herself around his heart with a thoroughness that left him wondering what it would ever be like not to have her there. He drew his fingers through her fine fur, and petted the soft down behind her ears. She yawned, revealing tiny spiky teeth, fixed him with one adoring eye, and then dropped back into slumber.

“She really likes you,” said Merlin, watching. Freya, the huge black cat, was on his lap, licking her paws.

“The feeling’s mutual,” confessed Arthur. “I’d love to take her home. But I’m sure you have people queueing up for your puppies.”

“Not really Aithusa,” said Merlin. “Idris and Lambton - those are the other two of Elena’s pups - are already spoken for. But there’s not much call for a white border collie, I’m afraid. The shepherds all think the sheep will have trouble working out whether she’s a sheep or a dog. Which is ridiculous, when you think about it, because plenty of sheep are black or have black faces, and how many sheep bark and growl? But for whatever reason, no-one seems to want little Aithusa here. I can’t seem to give her away. To be honest, she seems more at home with people than the other dogs. I’m not sure she’s ideal as a sheepdog. She might be better as a pet. And the shepherds, they sense that. My friend Will thinks I should have her put down. She’s an expense, see. But I’d never do that.”

“That’s awful.” A great protective lump swelled in Arthur’s throat. “I’d love to take her. I’d take her in an instant!” For a moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of imagining Aithusa greeting him as he came through the door of his bare, empty flat in the evenings, but he tamped them down with a sigh. “But it wouldn’t be fair. I’m not there enough.” To his shame, his eyes felt hot and prickly, and he had to clear his throat for a second.

When he looked up, Merlin was looking at him with understanding in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Maybe… but no, you’re a city boy, it’s a silly idea.”

“No, go on,” said Arthur.

“Well,” said Merlin. “I will keep her here, of course. But maybe she’ll pine for you. What if you say that she’s yours after all? But you’ll need to come and visit her.”

When he and Merlin locked eyes, hope burst through Arthur’s chest like the sun coming out after a long night.

“I will, won’t I?” Arthur said, softly. “I’ll need to come really often, so that we. You know. Bond.” He raised a fist to his chest and smiled.

“Yes,” said Merlin, nodding. “Really often, I’d say.” His eyes were very dark, even by the light of the flickering fire. “Maybe even most weekends.”

Something passed between them, then, a charged moment that extended into seconds. After a while, Merlin swallowed and glanced at the ceiling. Arthur had to look down and cough.

“Well, then,” Arthur said. “That’s settled.” He gave Aithusa’s flank a little pat. “You’re mine, now, young lady, like it or not. I’ll come back as often as I can, and check that this bumpkin is looking after you for me.” His voice cracked a little bit, but Merlin chuckled, and the tension loosened.

“So, where’s this swanky restaurant your sister is going to tonight, then?” said Merlin.

“It’s called The Charm,” said Arthur, grateful for the change of subject.

“Hmm,” said Merlin. “I haven’t heard of it. Probably out of my price range, to be honest. The young farmers group normally end up at the Queen of Caerleon down the road. Annis, she’s the owner, she knew my mum, so she lets me run up a tab when the cash flow’s a bit dodgy, and pay it off when I’ve sold a few lambs. You know. And no-one much minds the dogs in there.”

Arthur tried to imagine three border collies milling around the sort of achingly trendy three-Michelin-starred establishment that Morgana liked to frequent, and nearly spat out his cider. Which was when his brain caught up with Merlin’s speech, and he bit his lip.

“What happened to her?” he said, quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Your mother. You said that the owner knew your mum, past tense. What happened?”

Merlin’s face dropped.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur looked away for a moment. “That was tactless of me. It’s just that… I lost my mother, a few years back. I wondered... “ He looked back at Merlin, who was gazing straight at him, mouth slightly open, wordless for once. “People wouldn’t talk about her, when she went. And I wanted to. But if you don’t want to, that’s fine.”

“Well.” Shaking his head, Merlin looked down at the floor. When he looked back up again, his eyes were shining. “I, erm. She was amazing, you know? I was doing my nursing training, away in Cardiff.” He waved his hand vaguely, as if Cardiff was a hundred miles away, and on another continent. “It was a couple of years back, now, but you never really… you know? So I stopped and came here, when she… I mean, she loved this farm, she would have wanted me to… you know.”

“I do.” Arthur’s throat closed. He knew only too well. “My mother left me a charity.” He huffed out a laugh. “I know, posh or what? And my father and my sister don’t agree with my ideas for what we should do with it.”

“Well, you have to do what she would have wanted, of course,” said Merlin, frowning. “She left it to you, after all. She must trust you to do what is best.”

It sounded so simple, when Merlin said it out loud like that.

“You know, you’re pretty wise, for a clumsy bumpkin,” said Arthur, clamping his hands on the chair arms to stop his voice from shaking. He blinked to tamp down the heat behind his eyes. Smoke from the open fire must have billowed into the room, making them smart.

“And you’re not so bad,” said Merlin, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands and sniffing loudly. He pulled a tissue out of a box on the table and dabbed at his face. “As repressed English clotpoles go.”

“Thanks, I think,” said Arthur. He went to pull a handkerchief from his pocket, and then, remembering that he was wearing Merlin’s trousers, groped for a tissue from the table instead.

There was a long moment while they both gazed at the fire and Arthur blew his nose.

“I’ll go and see about somewhere for you to sleep, shall I?” said Merlin after a while.

“Probably for the best,” croaked Arthur, still not quite back in equilibrium.

“I don’t have a spare bed, though. Will normally sleeps on the sofa. And I’ll be up at the crack of dawn. Probably best if you sleep in my bed, and I stay down here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Arthur. “I’m quite used to sleeping rough. When I was growing up, I’d often sleep in my car when my friends invited me over.” He didn’t mention that the car would be parked in the extensive grounds of his friends’ mansion houses. “The sofa will be fine, if you could let me have some blankets or something.”  

“Well, if you’re sure. I mean, I know it’s New Year’s Eve, but I probably won’t stay up until much beyond nine, tonight, I’m afraid,” said Merlin, yawning and taking a long draw on his cider. “I’ll have to be up at five to take some more fodder up to the girls in the field.”

“I’ve got no great desire to see in the New Year,” said Arthur. “The last one has been pretty crappy, to be honest. I’ll be glad to see the back of it. Anyway, I’ll get up and give you a hand.”

“Are you sure?” said Merlin, with a lopsided quirk of his lips. “Are you ok to be seen in public in my untrendy cast-offs!”

“I’ve got a change of clothes in the car,” said Arthur. “And anyway, someone’s got to make sure you don’t brain yourself on a hay bale or something!”  

“Thanks.” Merlin’s eyes were soft as he tilted his head on one side with an appraising smile. “You know, you’re alright, for a straight Englishman.”

“Ah. About that.” Arthur smiled back. “I’ve been trying to tell you but I can’t seem to get a word in edgeways! You do realise that I went to boarding school, don’t you? That makes me at least heteroflexible, to start with.”

“What?” Round-eyed, Merlin looked down at his cup, took a long gulp of his boozy chocolate, and then coughed. “Oh my God,” he choked. Heavy coughs wracked his wiry shoulders and he put his cup down. “You mean to say…?”

“Yes, you presumptuous bumpkin,” said Arthur, gently pushing Aithusa to the ground so that he could stand up to thump Merlin on the back. “The English boarding school system works on a more cash, more posh, more queer basis.”

“And the school you went to?” said Merlin, his coughing slowing as he stared up. He bit the plump of his lower lip. It sprung back, white at first from the pressure, and then dark with blood.

“Eye-wateringly expensive,” said Arthur, in a low voice, tracking the movement of Merlin’s mouth. “And achingly posh.”

“Which means you are…?” said Merlin, burying his nose in his mug again, staring at Arthur over the top. “In terms of queerness, I mean? Just to be totally clear.”

“About a two the Kinsey scale,” said Arthur. He eyed Merlin’s messy hair and plump lips thoughtfully. “Actually, make that more like a three.”  He shrugged. “It’s not set in stone.”

“Fuck,” breathed Merlin, gulping down a couple more mouthfuls. “Then all my fantasies about posh boys’ boarding schools are true. It’s like Christmas all over again.” He tilted his head, darting Arthur an appraising glance.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I hate to disappoint you but it wasn’t really like that.” Arthur chuckled at Merlin’s sorrowful expression. “I don’t really do casual flings.”

It wasn’t 100% true. There had been a couple of times with Valiant in the changing rooms - an opportunistic blow job here and a quick fumble there. But he hadn’t liked the way that he had felt afterwards - hollow, somehow, and used - and since then, he’d only been intimate with people when he was in a relationship.

But people he dated seemed to expect sexual intimacy way before Arthur was ready for it. And maybe that was part of the reason that he found himself in this situation now, single and lonely in his early thirties, while all of his friends and contemporaries gradually paired up and moved on. But he couldn’t bring himself to enter the pointless treadmill of online dating and hookups. Instead he remained aloof, and told himself that it didn’t matter that he was alone, that he didn’t need anyone, that he liked his space, liked the fact that he didn’t have to consult anyone when he decided to do something to the flat, or buy something for the workshop, or fly to Gstaad for a weekend’s ski-ing. It was a lie, of course. It mattered. It mattered more than anything. 

And Merlin - Merlin with his quick smiles and ready wit, with his warmth and clumsiness, with his beloved dogs and cat, and his quirky home. Merlin was alone, too, although he had his animals. But maybe it mattered to him, as well?

“Well, that’s a crying shame,” said Merlin, with a heavy, put-upon sigh, although his smile gave the lie to his melodramatic reaction. “And there was me hoping for a sleazy hook-up! Joking!” He chuckled, eyelashes fluttering against his blush-stained cheek as he stared down at the dregs in his mug. “To be honest, I have to confess that I’ve not had a great deal of success in that area either. Went out clubbing in Cardiff, of course, when I was doing my nursing training. Twice! But left early. Didn’t like the noise. And all that posturing and snogging on the dance floor. Talk about culture clash! It all seems a bit pointless, really.”

“Yeah,” said Arthur, imagining Merlin, all wide-eyed and country-boy innocence, strolling into a raunchy Cardiff LGBTQIA disco. “Wish I could have seen you there, mind!”

“Blink and you would have missed it!”

Catching Merlin’s eyes, brimful of mirth, he couldn’t help laughing. They burst into hearty guffaws simultaneously. Tension seeped from Arthur’s shoulders, and for the first time in God know how long, he forgot the stresses of his job and his empty home life. 

And as for Guinevere's car, well it would have to wait until tomorrow, which would bring another not only another day but also a whole new year. 

 

~~~


	2. Haf

_Haf (Summer)_

_~~~_

_If a house has a face, then this one is lined with age. The building smiles. Great cracks like wrinkles radiate from the corners of its windows. Convolvulus and ivy wind across its decaying stone skin. Its eyes are jagged windows that gape open to the world, its balding pate a roof of tumbling slates. Here and there, timbers, twisted and blackened with soot, protrude through gaps in the slates like carelessly cropped clumps of singed hair._

_And yet._

_This is a ruin, but a glorious one. The air hangs heavy with the drugging heat of summer, the scent of honeysuckle, the drone of insects. High above, skylarks dart and trill. Though the ivy partly obscures the Corinthian stucco columns, and nettles are encroaching on the doorways and lintels, the oak door atop the stone step is sturdy, warm and smooth. The window, though ajar, is glazed, with neat glass panels edged by painted white wood. The slow encroachment of the ivy, its fingers clasping the stones as it spirals up, up the drainpipe, up over the mossy guttering, up to the very top of the chimney, has not yet reached the television aerial that crowns it._

_A breath of wind steals like a sigh through the leaves of the ash tree.._

_Not dead yet, but sleeping. Waiting._

_Waiting._

 

~~~

A heavy weight was pressing on Arthur’s shoulder. He couldn’t move. He shrugged it off, but it pressed again. His legs were bent, and one foot was icy cold.

“Come on, lazybones!” said an unfamiliar voice. “Shake a leg!”

“Leamialone.” Groaning, Arthur burrowed into the duvet, only for a remorseless hand to take it away, so that cold air flooded against his skin, raising goose-bumps. “Nooo! Fckoff!”

“And a Happy New Year to you to! Come on!” A fuzzy, grinning face resolved into Merlin’s features. “You said you wanted to help this morning!”

“Morning being the operative word,” grumbled Arthur, yawning and rolling into a sitting position with the duvet rucked up around his chest. “But this is the middle of the night!”

“It’s 5 am.” Merlin sounded far too cheerful. “The weather has died down. It’ll be lovely out there. And I know it’s New Year’s Day, but the hens and the sheep don't know that. Besides, if we call the AA now, they should be here before mid-day.”

“I don’t believe you.” But, sighing, Arthur pushed the duvet off, and with it the remnants of his dream.

It took ages to get enough clothes on to keep out the cold, but a cup of hot tea and some toast later, Arthur stood outside, calf-deep in snow. Merlin’s sturdy cast-off fleece-lined wellies were a size or two too big, but tolerable. The sun hadn’t yet come up, but the moon was still high. It shone bright over the farmyard, sparkling where it met newly fallen snow.

Arthur wore a pair of slightly too tight cords tucked into his boots. Merlin had lent him a thick, quilted lumberjack shirt and fleece, and over this he’d added a slightly too small waxed jacket that was tight across his shoulders, a surprisingly soft fleece scarf that smelt faintly of detergent, and a woollen, dark green beanie hat with a picture of a sheep sewn onto it. He pulled on a pair of tight working gloves from the pocket, flexing numb fingers, but the wind still whistled through the seams. If Morgana could have seen him, she would have laughed out loud, but thankfully she was presumably still holed up in the luxury cottage she’d hired out for New Year, and in the meantime Arthur was comfortable enough.

He carried a heavy torch that mirrored the one that Merlin was carrying. It projected a thick cone of light onto the snow. He followed Merlin and the dogs through part-buried tractor-tracks to a gate, which Merlin pushed open, closing it behind him before trudging into a moonlit field, their torches creating twin streaks of gold onto the ground.

If the cold had not taken his breath, the vista would have done. It had certainly been worth crawling out of bed for. Across the field, the soft-white silhouettes of the trees framed the far-off snow-blanketed hills. Over towards the horizon, the moon gazed down on them, bathing everything in a bright, silver glow. Stretching across the sky in an arc of blazing pinpricks, the Milky Way lent a vast and reassuring sense of distance and permanence that made Arthur’s concerns seem somehow small and unimportant.

As they trudged towards the shelter of some trees in the far corner of the field, the dogs yapped excitedly, nipping at each other before racing off towards some distant sheep-like silhouettes.

“Gwaine, Percival, lie down!” commanded Merlin.

The dogs instantly dropped into the snow, their shapes stark and black against the shining pale landscape. They stayed there while Arthur and Merlin crumped on, leaving footprints, their boots depositing blobs of compacted snow in their wake.

“It must have taken a while to train them,” said Arthur, thinking of little Aithusa. “Could you teach me how?”

“I’d love to say yes, but to be honest, Mum bought Gwaine and Percival from a trainer! It takes ages to train a sheepdog! It’s a matter of trust, you see,” said Merlin, putting a whistle between his teeth and speaking through them. “To start with, at least. Trust, and consistency. You have to put a lot of time in. And they need to know who’s in charge. Who’s the pack leader, if you will. Once they’ve got it, then they learn really quickly.”

Turning back towards the dogs, he let out a piercing whistle. The dogs slunk back towards him, tails dragging reluctantly in the snow.

“Good boys,” he added, firmly, with a brief hand to each dog’s head. “It’s a delicate balancing act. They’ve got to want to go to the sheep. But they’ve got to trust you when you tell them not to. Right now, I don’t want the sheep running off before I’ve checked they’re OK and they’ve got enough fodder. So I’ve called the boys in and they’ll wait until I tell them to go.”

“So the sheep stayed out here all night?” Arthur was still puzzled at the concept of leaving expensive livestock out in the open in a blizzard. “Surely they’d be better off in a shed?”

“You’d think!” Merlin cocked his head on one side as he walked on, his breath steaming when he laughed. “But actually it’s healthier for them outside. They can find grass under two feet of snow, you know. And you’d be amazed how quickly diseases spread, indoors. This lot are all pregnant, now. They’ll all lamb out here, too, you know.”

“Seriously?” Arthur hadn’t known that.

“Yes,” said Merlin. “I’ve got them in this field, for the weather, so I can keep an eye on them. Normally they’d be out on the hills. So they need some fodder out, there’s too many of them here for just one field. The trees and hedge provide all the shelter they need, really. But I wouldn’t mind building a lean-to for them. Just a bit of corrugated iron would do. They’d like that. They don’t like the wind, you see.”

Building a lean-to would be easy with a circular saw and a bit of planking. Arthur wished he had his woodworking equipment with him. It’d only take him a few hours, with some help. He tucked the idea away in a growing corner of his head.

They were approaching the flock, now. Gwaine and Percival kept to Merlin’s heels. The ewes turned baleful eyes on Arthur, jaws endlessly working.

“Lie down, boys.” Leaving the dogs, Merlin walked slowly over to the sheep, where they huddled in the lee of a scruffy hedge, some of them almost hidden beneath snow-covered branches. They shuffled their feet nervously, but to start with, they stayed where they were. But when one of them made a break for it, the others followed, hooves disappearing beneath thick snow.

“Silly things.” Merlin huffed. “Gwaine, come by.” He whistled. Immediately, Gwaine darted out beyond the flock and circled in behind them. They began to fan out into the field. “Percival, away.” He whistled again, with a different tone. Percival mimicked Gwaine’s run, but on the other side of the flock, rounding them back towards where the two men were standing. “Stand, stand. And lie down.”

Burying his gloved hands into the deep pockets of Merlin’s cast-off jacket, Arthur forgot about the cold as he watched the shepherd at work.

And later, when Merlin had rounded the sheep up and called the dogs back in with a curt “that’ll do”, the sun was staining the horizon a faint pink that glowed and melted into the clouds. As they walked together back to the farm buildings, the sky glowed bright with the approaching day. The far hills blushed in its light.

Transfixed, Arthur paused at the gate, sucking in great mouthfuls of the clean air. In all his travels as CEO of Pendragon, Inc., from Miami to Tokyo, from the beaches of Zanzibar to the mountains that gazed across Canada, he couldn’t remember ever seeing such a view. The thought of leaving it made his throat tighten. He breathed deep again. Soon, he would have to face reality. He wanted to fill his lungs with this glorious landscape that made his heart soar and his face tingle, first.

“It’s special, isn’t it?” said Merlin, leaning on the snow-topped gate, quirking up his lips. His eyes glinted ocean blue in the gathering light.

It really was, but Arthur didn’t really have the words for it, so he just returned Merlin’s smile instead, ignoring the dread that squeezed his chest when he thought about going back to the city and leaving all this behind.

“Don’t get too comfy, though,” Merlin added. Still talking, he turned and started to trudge back towards the yard. “The AA are on their way. We have more sheep to check, and more fodder to put out. We need to clear a path from the yard to the house. We can pull that car out with the tractor, to make it easier for the breakdown people. And my hens need feeding. Chop, chop!”

“You can go off people, you know,” said Arthur. Looping the torch handle over his wrist to free his hands, he grabbed a handful of snow off the fence, shaping it into a ball, and aiming it at Merlin’s retreating back, where it landed with a satisfyingly wet thud.

“Oi!” said Merlin, stooping to scoop up a handful of snow and turning back. “I felt that!”

“Felt what?” Laughing, Arthur backed away as Merlin approached him. He groped on the top of the fence for more ammunition. “Nothing to do with me!”

Merlin threw his snowy missile, missing Arthur’s face by a whisker when he ducked.  

Arthur returned fire, scoring a direct hit on Merlin’s nose.

“Gotcha!” he crowed.

“Right!” Merlin grimaced, his eyebrows, scarf and cheeks spattered with thick clumps of white that started to melt and drip. “No more Mr Nice Guy.”

The next ten minutes dissolved in a haze of soft projectiles, anguished cries and tingling skin that ended with Arthur slipping over and falling into a thick drift. Quick to take advantage, Merlin stepped forward with a cry of triumph.

“Mercy!” he cried, as Merlin pelted him with great fistfuls of snow. He grabbed Merlin’s lapel and pulled him so that Merlin lost his balance and ended up on top of him, pink-cheeked and laughing.

“Come on, you prat, we’ve got work to do,” chuckled Merlin, eyes disappearing behind a mess of laughter lines. His weight pressed Arthur into the snow, all long bones and hard-worked muscle, covered in soft, damp clothes like a fabric-wrapped gift.

“Yeah,” croaked Arthur. He licked suddenly dry lips. “Get off me, you great buffoon. You’re heavier than you look.” He made no move to dislodge Merlin, though. Instead, his hand crept of its own volition towards Merlin’s back, resting lightly upon one shoulder.

“What me?” Merlin looked down at where their bodies lay one upon the other. He seemed in no hurry to budge either. “I’m as light as a feather.”

“Are all feathers this annoying?” smiled Arthur, moving his hand a little lower.

“Are all posh prats this distracting?” Merlin dipped forward, until their faces almost touched. He blinked, long, black eyelashes lashes grazing his cheek

Swallowing, Arthur closed his eyes but didn’t move his head. The trousers he was wearing were suddenly uncomfortably tight. The moment lingered in a breathless anticipation that made his heart thud hard against his ribs. Surely…

But at that moment, the farmyard echoed to a loud flurry of menacing barks. Orange flashes lit his eyelids. Merlin’s warm bulk lifted off, leaving Arthur cold and uncomfortable. Puzzled, he opened his eyes again, blinking against the sun.

“It’s the AA!” said Merlin, kneeling up with an apologetic shrug. “Gwaine! Percival! Be quiet!” He pushed to his feet, and strode away across the yard, calling the dogs to him.

Sighing, Arthur pulled himself up, sweeping snow from his damp trousers in an economical movement, and turned to face the New Year.

~~~

“George called,” said Guinevere, perched on the edge of his desk, tapping her teeth with her pen “Your clothes are back from the cleaners. Unfortunately, the trousers are ruined. He says the brogues are salvageable, just, but the leather will never be the same again.” Her curious gaze burned a hole in his shoulders.

“He’s such an old mother hen.” Arthur sighed and leaned his head on the glass window, gazing down at the street far below, littered as it was with tourists and scurrying people in business suits, for a moment envying them being able to get on with their lives without valets and PAs and sisters scrutinising everything that they did. “Can you tell him to order a new pair from the cobbler?” They’d been his favourite casual shoes. It would take him ages to break them in. “Same size, etc. They have my measurements.”

“Of course.” Tucking her pen behind her ear, she swiped at her tablet. “I’ve booked your usual chalet for the weekend, they’re expecting you at 10.30pm. The Learjet is at Stansted, so you’ll need to leave the office by 6 in Friday traffic. Your Porsche still isn’t ready, and my car is still at the garage, so I’ve contacted the limo company, there’s a Bentley or a Merc--”

“I’m so sorry about your car, Guinevere,” interrupted Arthur, tearing his gaze from the view. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Compared to the opulent suite Uther had once occupied as CEO, Arthur’s office on the 25th floor of Pendragon Tower was relatively modest. Which was to say that floor to ceiling glass opened out to the vista of St Paul’s on only one of the four walls, compared to the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree windows that Uther had preferred. Arthur had chosen the works of art that adorned the other three walls for their visual appeal, rather than their investment potential. With Guinevere’s help, he had selected everything from the sustainable hardwood desk to his recycled-bottle office chairs from his friend Leon’s eco-friendly, Hoxton-based upcycling business.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Guinevere replied. “I’m going away to Paris for the weekend with Lance.” Her voice squeaked a little as she said his name, and her eyes went all far-away and unfocussed for a minute. “He’s taking me on Eurostar.”

“Of course he is.” Arthur suppressed his grin and shook his head. Guinevere’s romance with this handsome half-Chilean heartthrob had kept the office entertained for months. It was no more than she deserved, Arthur would be the first to agree. He made a mental note to get Sefa to make sure that Guinevere’s Eurostar booking was upgraded to First Class, and that there would be a bottle of champagne on ice to greet them when they got there.

“Right,” Guinevere cleared her throat and looked back at her tablet. “Which is lovely. Anyway, Stansted. I’ll send for a limo...”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m not going to Gstaad.” Arthur chuckled at her shocked expression. Crossing the room in short strides, he pulled out his desk chair and sat down, gazing at his computer screen. “Don’t look at me like that! Plans change! I’ll skip the weekend in Gstaad. Instead, can you hire me a four-wheel drive or something - second hand. Nothing too fancy. Have it delivered to the Hampstead house tomorrow morning, please, so I have time to load it and bring it into the office. Oh, and cancel the Porsche order.”

“What?” Guinevere’s mouth dropped open, and she dropped her pen. “ _Cancel_ it? Are you sure you’re all right?” she said, as she scrabbled around for it on the floor. She bobbed up again, a concerned line creasing her forehead. “Did you pick up pneumonia in Wales? Oh no, maybe it’s turned to meningitis. Oh, God, you did! And no wonder, Morgana’s satnav is completely dead!  I mean, you can turn it on, but it just says _you have reached your destination_ over and over again! You must have been under water for too long. You’re going to die of pneumonia, and Slimy Aggie will weasel his way into the CEO job, begging your pardon, Arthur, but I don’t like him, he looks at me funny, and he gels his hair, at his age too! And what will happen to the company then…?”

“Guinevere,” he interrupted her, before she could incriminate herself any further with indiscreet comments about his family members.

“Oops.” She fell silent.

“I’m absolutely fine,” he added. “I just…” He floundered around for a second, looking for the words to explain without giving too much away. “I…”

“Oh, my God!” she breathed, staring at him. “You’ve met someone. Tell me all about them! Who is it? Is it Vivian? Do tell me it’s not! I mean, I’m sure she’s very nice… Oh, God! Arthur, Morgana’s going to be so--”

“Don’t even think about mentioning anything to anybody about anything!” He tried to look stern as he pointed his pen at her, which was difficult given how hot his cheeks had grown. “Especially, and I mean this, especially Morgana!”

“What were you saying about me?” Bang on cue, the door opened, and Morgana walked in.

“Doesn’t anybody knock around here?” Arthur rolled his eyes. Great. “We were just saying how there are some people in this company who really need to stop poking their noses in where they are not welcome, especially, and I mean it, especially Morgana, when you walked in. As if to prove my point.”

“You weren’t saying that.” She narrowed her eyes to spiteful green gimlets.

“Wasn’t I?” Leaning back on his chair, Arthur steepled his fingers, peering at her over the top.

“Ahem.” With a loud crash, Guinevere dropped a pile of papers on the floor. “Oops!”

She knelt to reassemble the pile. Morgana and Arthur hurried to help her, and the moment was forgotten. Trust Guinevere to defuse an awkward situation to save his bacon from Morgana. Again! Arthur made a mental note to add flowers and chocolate to the champagne order. And a pay rise. Because money never offends.

Except when it does. His mind wandered back to Merlin. Merlin had looked so disappointed when he had offered him cash. He’d never really met anyone like that before - and it wasn’t just the arresting cheekbones and blue eyes that he couldn’t get out of his head, although of course, they were pretty memorable, it was Merlin’s mischievous demeanour, and that snow-ball fight, which had ended so promisingly, he couldn’t wait to see where it might lead next. Aithusa was adorable, too, and what a convenient excuse for taking another weekend in Wales. If only he could think of some way of getting Morgana off the scent--

“Arthur.” Morgana banged her fist on the desk, making him jump. “Pay attention!”

“I am paying attention!”

“You’re not.” She glared at him. “You’ve been acting all odd, ever since last weekend. Distracted.”

“Well, maybe I have just got fed up with pandering to your ridiculous sense of entitlement,” he said, scowling. “New Year, new me. Get used to it. You may leave.”

“How dare you!” She stamped her foot, for all the world like a petulant schoolgirl.

“I said, leave. Now, Morgana.” He sat back down and made a shoo-ing motion with his hand. “Before I have you forcibly ejected.”

“You wouldn’t!” Her expensively lipsticked lips thinned to a scarlet line.

“Wouldn’t I? Guinevere, please see to it that she closes the door behind her.”

“Of course, Arthur.” With an apologetic shrug, she stood up. “Morgana, I was wanting to ask you about when you’d be available to review the plans for the new Avalon building? Mithian dropped them off this morning...”

“What?” Morgana’s face lit up. “She did? They’re ready? Fantastic! But I’ll have to get Mordred to check my diary...”

“That’d be great. Could you get him to call Sefa as soon as possible? To confirm delivery of the draft plans, and arrange return of them once you’ve signed them off.”

“Of course,” said Morgana. The Avalon building was her pet project, a brand new stillbirth research facility that she’d commissioned herself, despite Uther’s disapproval. “I’ll talk to him right away.”

“And Mordred will need to call Mithian so that she can come in and go through your questions...” Still talking, she ushered Morgana away and closed the door.

Genius. Arthur had to press his lips together to avoid grinning. Guinevere was wasted as his PA, but had studiously resisted all his attempts to promote her. It had taken a lot of fast talking for him to persuade her to take Sefa on as her own assistant so that she could pass on some of the more boring administrative jobs. But he was determined to keep working on her. One of these days, despite her protestations, he’d promote her onto the board of executives. She was too shrewd and wily to waste on mere administration. She’d have the board eating out of her hand within hours.

“She’s right you know,” she added, turning back to him, leaning back on the door to prevent the outmaneuvred Morgana from coming back in. “You do seem different. More… authoritative. It suits you.”

“Thanks, I think.” Sighing, Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. It was only the Wednesday of a four-day week, what with the New Year bank holiday being deferred from Sunday to Monday, but he was tired already. “Please see to the vehicle for Friday.”

“Of course,” she said, making a note on her tablet. “Perhaps you would like me to ask your father if Geoffrey can drive?”

“No thanks,” said Arthur, imagining his father’s immaculate, liveried butler-cum-chauffeur in a scruffy farmyard, and struggling to disguise his mirth at the mental picture this presented. “I’ll drive myself.”

“But where are you--”

“Would you send Agravaine in?” he interrupted. “I’d like to discuss something with him.”

“Of course, _Lord Pendragon_ ,” she said, with an offended pout.

“Guinevere!” He sighed. The formality wasn’t lost on him, and normally he would share details of his plans without blinking, but for some reason he wanted to keep Merlin, Aithusa, and Tyn y Pant farm to himself.

“No, it’s fine, I know my place.” Banging the papers she’d amassed on the desk, she turned and flounced out of the room.

He buried his head in his hands, adding a new silk scarf to the long list of items he would ask Sefa to procure for Guinevere’s train journey, and wondering if it was too late to give her an extra Christmas bonus.

~~~

 

The traffic on the M4, as usual on a Friday night, was completely disgusting, and by the time he reached the glowing steelworks at Port Talbot, their rotten-egg smell permeating his nostrils despite the firmly closed-up car windows, his eyes were burning with fatigue. He turned off onto a side road, where he promptly fell into line behind yet another a queue snaking into the distance. Shouldn’t everyone be home by now? Blinking back tired tears, Arthur ground his teeth together in frustration. He glanced at the clock. Already nine thirty. Merlin would probably be asleep by the time he got there.

Having spent the past few days since the New Year in a thrill of anticipation at this trip, Arthur wondered now if he’d been wrong about South Wales, about the beauty of the farm and simplicity of the companionship he’d shared with Merlin. Could he have romanticised the whole thing, and invented the immediacy of their connection, by being swept up in a heady desire for it to be true? It wouldn’t be the first time he had slipped head first into a disaster of miscommunication and crossed wires. The whole thing with Sophia still haunted his nightmares. All this traffic was not what he’d remembered of Wales at all. Perhaps this endless queuing and frustration was the reality, and the misty-hilled purity that he craved was just a holiday fantasy?

What with the traffic and the gnawing emptiness of his stomach, by the time he arrived at Tyn y Pant farm he had convinced himself that only disappointment awaited him at his destination. Resigned to the let-down, he steeled himself to it as he got out of the car, setting his jaw against the biting wind. Icy puddles crunched underfoot. The sole source of light, from the bare bulb outside Merlin’s cottage, threw a tiny glowing pool across the doorstep.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to prevent him from sliding and tumbling arse-first into a fragrant pile of something unmentionable en route from car to door. He’d dressed down for the occasion, this time, but didn’t possess any practical boots, an oversight he would be sure to ask George to remedy as soon as possible because the smooth leather soles of his navy wingtip Derbys were no match for the slippery and fragrant combination of ice and farmyard muck that he’d just stepped in.

“Jesus fucking H Christ on a bicycle,!” he yelled. Thoroughly riled now, he brushed his hands on his coat, leaving slimy trails, black in the gloom against the tan colour of his old waxed jacket. "Bollocks. George is going to kill me. Again."

He lifted his hand to knock, but the door opened from within. Merlin stood on the threshold, dressed in a soft-cotton plaid shirt and scruffy pair of baggy old jeans, all crinkle-eyed and smiling. A tiny white bundle wriggled and whined in his grip, and let out a flurry of welcoming barks. Aithusa!

Darting out of the cottage, Gwaine and Percival swirled around Arthur’s legs, woofing in a deeper timbre.

“Whoa, boys, let the poor man in!” said Merlin. The two sheepdogs circled Arthur one more time, as if rounding him up like so many sheep, and then fled into the darkness of the farmyard. “Arthur! It’s so good to see you! Glad you made it! Gwaine, Percival, in!”

“So am I,” said Arthur, all misgivings deserting him as Merlin thrust Aithusa into his arms and she coated his face in excited licks. “The traffic was beyond horrendous. Even the last twenty miles or so; there were roadworks, and they’d closed off the slip road off the M4, so…”

“Oh no! Come on in, we’ll get some food and drink inside you. You must be shattered. What happened to your hands? They’re covered in muck! It’s all down your front.”

“I slipped,” said Arthur, frowning.

“I did wonder what the loud cursing was all about! Still, at least we won’t need to fish your car out of the river, this time, hey?” The way Merlin’s eyes creased when he smiled was even more enchanting than Arthur had remembered, and his lips were reassuringly plump. “Aithusa! Stop it! Gwaine, put that stick down.”

“Don’t worry,” said Arthur. His hands were throbbing, but he laughed out loud as he snuggled the struggling puppy under his chin, the last icy tentacles of dread melting under the onslaught of doggy kisses. “I don’t think anyone's ever been this glad to see me before!”  

“Seriously? This just goes to show that you really need a puppy in your life. They’re guaranteed to help you to see the bright side, except when they have an accident all over the kitchen floor of course. Mind you, the way they bat their eyelids at you when they’ve been naughty just makes your heart melt every time....” Shutting the door behind them, Merlin stamped off into the living room, chattering over his shoulder all the while. “I had my first puppy when I was three years old. I couldn’t imagine life without them. And Gwaine and Percival have kept me company for years, now, even when mum… well, it’s just the best thing to have doggy friends about. That’s all I’m saying. Sit down, Arthur, don’t stand on ceremony like a clotpole. You must be pooped! Do you fancy some home-made soup? It’s vegetable. I’ve got some nice bread from Jones’s - that’s my friend Will’s bakery. He’s the one who owns the ram we use to service the girls...”

“I’ve been sitting down for hours, you idiot!” Arthur followed Merlin into the kitchen, depositing the pup with her mum and siblings before attempting to wash the vile, slimy farmyard muck off his hands in the white, ceramic sink. “Ugh. This stuff stinks.”

“Ah. Sorry. I should have warned you when you called. It’s good stuff, though, that well-rotted manure!” said Merlin, his enthusiasm showing in the upturned crescents of his eyes. “I got it from the pony sanctuary, completely free! It’s for next year’s winter turnip crop… the sheep love a good turnip. Hell’s bells, Arthur, you’re bleeding.”

“Wondered why it stung so much.” Sure enough, a mixture of muck and grit had ground its way into the heels of Arthur’s hands which were now dribbling red and black into the white porcelain sink.  

“We’ll have to clean that up properly.” Gingerly, Merlin opened the door to another cupboard, which promptly fell off its hinges with a clatter that made all the dogs sit up and bark. “Bugger.”

Arthur grinned to himself and added “another broken kitchen cupboard” to his mental list of things to help Merlin out with this weekend.

“Still, at least you had a soft landing.” Reaching inside, Merlin pulled out a professional-looking, rectangular first-aid kit with a reassuring white cross on a green background. “On that arse, I mean. Now, let’s have a look at those hands.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?” said Arthur, pursing his lips as he presented his upturned palms. The bruised area was bigger than the thin cuts on the flesh at the base of both thumbs, but deep gashes on both hands oozed with blood. Black specks of dirt were lodged deep inside.

“No, no!” Merlin washed his own hands, drying them on a clean-looking towel, and pulling on a new pair of latex gloves with a snap. “It’s a very fine rump, beautifully proportioned. One of the best I’ve seen. No latex allergy, I hope?”

When Arthur shook his head, he pulled out some antiseptic wipes and a bottle of clear liquid.

“What do you mean, the best you’ve seen?” A horrible suspicion hit Arthur and he craned his neck to see whether he’d managed to rip yet another pair of trousers. He had. “Bugger! I haven’t cut my arse as well, have I?”

“We are on form with the fine, ripe language this evening!” said Merlin, grinning. “This’ll sting a bit.”

“Ow!” Arthur yelled as Merlin dug enthusiastically into the broken skin on the heel of his hands with a sterile brush, pulling bits of grit and grime, and then following up with a swab covered in something that hurt so much it made his eyes water. “Jesus fuck!”

“Oh, don’t be such a big baby,” said Merlin. “It’ll heal much better without any dirt in to start off infections. You don’t want septicemia setting in. Have you had a tetanus booster recently?”

“It’s a bloody good thing you’re a farmer, not a nurse,” said Arthur, frowning. “Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, to be frank.”

“It’s just a little scratch.” Merlin’s tongue poked out from between his lips as he worked, deftly covering the newly cleaned wounds with sterile, waterproof adhesive dressings.

“Scratch? I’d say that’s a gash at the very least. In fact, I’d say contusions,” said Arthur, much relieved now that his hands were neatly dressed.

“Talking of which,” said Merlin, “would you like me to look at your arse next?”

“That won’t be necessary,” croaked Arthur, clutching his bum with one hand. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a shower. And could I borrow some clothes, please?”

“All right.” Fluttering his eyelashes, Merlin nodded towards the steep wooden staircase. “Upstairs with you then.”

“Thanks. But no peeping, mind.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Pervert.” Grinning, Arthur tap-tapped up the wooden stairs, still holding his arse.

Merlin’s shower produced satisfying jets of nearly-too-hot water. Gasping, Arthur let it run in rivulets across his face and checked his bum for scratches (thankfully none; however, his trousers and underpants were once more a casualty). How was it that he’d managed to ruin two perfectly good sets of casual clothes? George would be most upset.

But he couldn’t bring himself to care too much about that. Not when he could hear Merlin downstairs, singing some Welsh hymn in melodious tones, to deep accompanying woofs and howls from his dogs. It was like some sort of semi-human, semi-canine male voice choir, and the sounds were oddly comforting compared to the hum of traffic that he’d become so accustomed to in his London penthouse.

Stepping out of the shower, ten degrees warmer, a hundred percent cleaner, and a whole order of magnitude better tempered, he looked round the tiny shower room. The cabinet that housed Merlin’s toiletries was missing its mirror, which was propped up on the floor. Heavy globs of dried adhesive scarred its door. When Arthur tried to open the cabinet, the handle came off - a loose screw fell tinkling to the floor.

Thinking about the toolkit he’d brought, Arthur smiled.

On the shelf of the cabinet was a yellowing photograph in a frame. A dark-haired youth, all gangly-limbed and gawky-shouldered, stood between a heavily bearded man with beetling brows and a slight, kind-eyed woman. The youth Arthur recognised. Supposing that the man and woman were Merlin’s parents, he stared for a moment. Merlin’s mother had died, he knew that, but Merlin had never mentioned his father at all. Curious, Arthur fingered the frame.

“Ready for your soup yet?” came a yell from down the stairs.

“Nearly!” he shouted back, replacing the photograph. He towelled his hair, wincing slightly at the pain in his hands. He hoped it wouldn’t stop him from doing the things he had planned this weekend.

He needed them to be fully functional if he was going to execute Operation Fix Merlin’s House with his usual efficiency.

~~~

“So how was your week, then?” said Merlin, a little later, when Arthur had washed off the remains of the week and re-entered the kitchen in a pair of slightly tight but serviceable jeans and a cotton plaid shirt that must have been three sizes too big for Merlin, because it hung loose over even Arthur’s shoulders.

Merlin ladled out two steaming bowls of soup from a large pan, which simmered on the cooker.

“I’ve had a quiet one,” Merlin added, when Arthur didn’t answer. “The snow’s mostly gone, obviously, but I’ve been busy with the sheep. And a fox got into the hen barn- luckily Percival and Gwaine chased him off before he could get any of them, but they were pretty spooked. One of them hasn’t laid for a week. Hope she’s all right. Oh, and Aithusa has pined for you something dreadful.” He cocked a lopsided smile at Arthur, and winked. “She’s not the only one, to be honest. I must say, I like the new look. Those trousers fit very nice. Snug in all the right places.”

“Thanks, I think!.” Arthur snorted. An unaccountable peace settled over him at Merlin’s chatter and clumsy flirting.

They slurped at their soup by the light of the fire, bowls in their hands, steam wafting up their nostrils. The combination of the shower, the fire’s warmth and the soup made Arthur’s cheek glow and the pain in his hands dimmed to a dull soreness, muffled by the plasters.

“In answer to your question, it’s been a weird week,” Arthur said eventually, laying his spoon down in the used bowl and settling it upon a pile of old newspapers on Merlin’s cluttered coffee-table. “My father’s trying to get me to change my mother’s charity’s name and focus. And my uncle… he’s been acting all strange. Guinevere, that’s my PA, thinks he’s up to something. Tell the truth, she and I had a flaming row about it, today. I was so furious that she would question his motivation. And yet, it’s not like her to say things like that without cause.”

“Well, maybe she’s right? Who do you know best, her or your uncle?” said Merlin, scooping a final spoonful of soup into his mouth. His tongue snaked out to the corners of his lips. “Do you trust her judgment? What’s she like?”   

“My PA…” Arthur fished around for the right words to describe Guinevere. “She’s one of the kindest, most honest people I’ve ever met. And very astute. So, yes, upon reflection, I’m rather inclined to trust her judgment.” He sighed, remembering the angry words that he’d yelled at her, when they parted earlier that day. “I think maybe I’ve made a mistake.”

“It’s not easy, going against someone you look up to.” Merlin’s mouth, so expressive, turned down at the corners. “When someone you trust lets you down.”

“That’s true.” Arthur wondered who had let Merlin down. Was it the man in the photo in Merlin’s bathroom? How dare they? A sudden anger flashed in his chest. He leaned forward and nested the two empty bowls, to disguise his confusion, and stood to carry them away.

~~~

Later, much later, they sat in companionable silence in front of Merlin’s tiny television, guffawing at the antics of Graham Norton and his guests while the fire guttered and spat under the onslaught of heavy gusts down the chimney.

“Oh, before I forgot.” Arthur stood, rubbing fatigue from his eyes, and rummaged in the bag he had brought. “I brought you some more Cointreau. To replace what we drank last week.”

“Thanks!” Soft-eyed, Merlin took the bottle, and made to give it back. “But you didn’t need to do that! I was happy to share!”

“No, but I wanted to.” Holding up his hand, to stop Merlin from returning his gift, Arthur fished around for the words. “You took me in when I needed help. And I know you’re not a materialistic person, but somehow I wanted to reciprocate. But that’s not why I came back. I came back because….” He pinked.

“For Aithusa,” said Merlin. “Obviously.” His face was a little darker too, come to mention it. “She’s your dog, and all, see.”

“Obviously,” said Arthur, relieved. “I’d hate her to feel lonely.”

“That’s why you have to come back, often,” nodded Merlin. “She missed you a lot. And, besides…” he gulped, before gesturing around at the cluttered room. “I’m all on my own here. It… it… does me good, to have your company. You’re easy to be around. I suppose.”

“Somehow, you’re the only person I know who feels like that!” Arthur returned Merlin’s smile, the anxious knot in his chest unravelling under its warmth.

“Then you’re in the right place, clotpole!” said Merlin, holding his gaze for a moment or two until Arthur, face warming even further with the intensity of it, dropped his eyes. “How about a little snifter or two before bed?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Arthur, settling back onto the sofa.

“It’ll have to wait a minute or two, though,” said Merlin, gesturing to the telly with his head. “ _Christine and the Queens_ are on.” He shifted his weight until his thigh was a warm line alongside Arthur’s, and their shoulders were pressed together.

Suddenly hyperaware of Merlin’s body heat, Arthur cleared his throat but didn’t move. Merlin was flirting with him again, and it would be lying to say he wasn’t enjoying it, but he was deeply aware that he hadn’t been entirely honest with Merlin, and he really didn’t want to ruin everything by taking advantage of the situation. He sighed, and shuffled a little so that there was more room between them.

“Look,” he began to say.

“Shh!” said Merlin, pointing at the screen.

“Isn’t she, like, the wrong gender and everything?” Arthur’s brows knitted.

“Well, yeah, duh! Clotpole! But she’s amazing! And haven’t you seen her dancers? It’s so beautiful!” Merlin wouldn’t let him say a word during the performance, and by the end his eyes were wet and he was clinging to Arthur’s knee for dear life. “Oh, God, that was perfect.”

Arthur didn’t really get it, to be honest, but he couldn’t help liking the whole knee-clinging aspect, so he didn’t say anything. Instead he focused on the warmth of Merlin’s grip, his long, strong fingers, and tried not to imagine them in another setting entirely.

The next morning, after they’d fed the chickens, when they tramped back into the yard by the creeping dawn light, Merlin gaped at the trailer attached to the Volvo. A gust of wind tugged at an inky lock of hair that fell from his hat into his eyes. Arthur itched to brush it out of the way.

“Wow! I’m speechless!” Merlin said eventually.

“I may not have known you long, _Mer_ lin,” drawled Arthur, pleased at his reaction, “but somehow I doubt that!”

“Prat!” Merlin poked him with a bony elbow. “Where did you find all this timber at short notice?”

“I didn’t.” Arthur moved to the side of the truck and started to undo the clips that held the timber in place. “My friend Leon runs an upcycling-cum-architectural reclaim business, and he had these planks in his workshop. I help him out from time to time, I like to make things, you see, but I haven’t had much time recently… so I thought I’d bring the timber here. I can make a shelter for the sheep, before lambing starts. And I’ve brought my circular saw.”

“Your…” Merlin’s eyes were getting rounder and rounder. “But you’re so posh… and your shoes, they’re always so impra--”

“Yes, well, I may be well bred,” interrupted Arthur, “but I am a bloody amazing carpenter, if I say so myself.”

“Modest with it,” muttered Merlin, loud enough for Arthur to hear.

“What was that?” said Arthur, although he’d heard perfectly well.

“I said, build models with it?” Merlin grinned at his own barefaced lie, eyes narrowing to tiny arch-shaped slits of mischief.

“I’ll ignore that fib if you help me get these planks down.” Tamping down a chuckle, Arthur reached out to pull the first bundle of timber off the trailer. “There’s a gale warning out for Sunday, and we can’t have your sheep getting blown off the hills can we?”

“You’re full of surprises, you are!” Chuckling, Merlin took the other end of the bundle.


	3. Hydref

_Hydref (Autumn)_

~~~

_Ripe apples drag down the branches in the forgotten orchard and fall among a carpet of golden leaves. A heady, ciderlike stench fills the air. Drunk on partly fermented fruit, wasps burrow into the spongy flesh of rotten apples, laying eggs._

_Deep in the house, a plaster wall finally concedes its battle with the elements. It cracks, scattering shards and dust onto the warped wood floor._

_But still, the house waits._

~~~

“This looks fantastic, Morgana.” It was rare that Arthur was so unequivocal in his praise, but his trained eye knew quality when he saw it. He smoothed his hand over the drawings, pulling one out after another. “I love the way that they have melded these details onto the superstructure without compromising the structural integrity of the building. The lower stories will still have plenty of light, but these geometric patterns will add strength against horizontal shearing forces, which is critical in an earthquake prone region. And the use of local building materials really minimizes the costs.”

“I hate to say I told you so,” smirked Morgana. “But…”  

“Well.” Time was, he would have been piqued by her crowing. But he’d mellowed, of late. “Credit where credit is due. Who did you say was the architect?”

“Ahem - Arthur?” Guinevere poked her head round the door. “Sorry to interrupt, but George brought you these? He said it was urgent?” She proffered a discrete shoebox.

“What?” Eyeing the box, Arthur bit his lip. “Ah yes. Don’t worry. Come in and sit down, will you, Guinevere? Pop the box on the chair. Now, Morgana, this architectural firm?”

“Cenmor Et Associés,” she said, triumphantly as Guinevere threaded her way past large piles of paper that littered the floor.

“Cenmor?” Guinevere squeaked and clapped her hands. “I knew it!”

“You mean…” said Arthur at the same time, gaping at Morgana. “Seriously, the Paris group that Lancelot went on secondment to…”

“Headed by Cenred Leroi and Morgause Alois, yes.” She smiled, a genuine smile this time, her face softening. “Despite Father’s carping about costs… and his ranting.”

Arthur grimaced. He could hear Uther’s tirade about French architects in his head. _They haven’t done anything interesting since Le Corbusier - and he was a mechanistic plebean who created ugly, ill-designed buildings with all the charm and grace of a urine-filled municipal car-park._

“I ignored him, trusting my instincts,” Morgana went on, with a toss of her head. “And Guinevere told me about Lancelot’s background… the Chileans are light years ahead on earthquake protection! And look…”

“The design is brilliant.” Arthur smiled back up at her before looking down and tracing the lines with a pleased finger. “And perfect for the Excalibur project. We’ll need to scrutinize their costings, but at first glance I think it’s just what we need. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” A surprised frown creased her forehead. “You’re being very gracious about it, I must say.”

“What do you mean?” Puzzled, he looked up from the plans again.

“Well. Normally you’d be all grudging respect and snarky remarks,” she said. “But you’re actually being quite civilised. It suits you, brother dearest.” With a final smirk, she turned and left the room.

“Thanks, I think?” he said, rolling his eyes at her retreating back.

When he looked back at Guinevere, she was staring at him, head on one side in appraisal.

“What?” he said, glancing down to check that he hadn’t dribbled lunch on his tie.

“You.” She smiled. “Morgana’s right. You seem different. Happier.”

“Hmm.” He ran his finger through his hair. “Well, all this speculation about my emotional well-being is very heartwarming, and all that, Guinevere, but hardly necessary. I’m no more nor less happy than I was before…” he stopped, catching himself just in time.

“Before what,” said Guinevere. Her eyes had softened to that dangerous shade of brown that threatened to extract all his secrets.

“Nothing,” he said, flipping open the lid of the shoe-box to distract her.

He chuckled when he saw what was inside.

“What is it?” Frowning, Guinevere craned her neck to see.

“George.” In answer, Arthur lifted up a pair of brand new, bespoke taupe suede desert boots with one hand, fanning his other hand over his mouth to stop great guffaws from escaping. “This is what he thinks of as practical boots. Oh, Good Lord.” He imagined the impact of Merlin’s farmyard on the delicate tan of the suede and his mouth twisted into a rictus as he tried to quell his mirth.

“Arthur?” said Guinevere with a confused smile. “Are you all right?”

“These?” Wheezing between sobs, Arthur gestured to the boots on the table. He pictured the boots disappearing into a deep pit of slurry or whatever unmentionable lurked in the nether corners of Merlin’s farmyard. His voice shook. “I asked him for some practical boots and he got me these?”

“There’s something very, very odd about you, recently,” she said, shaking her head so that her curls bobbed on her shoulder.  Her eyes narrowed to inquisitive slits. “I wonder…”

“You wonder what?” Sobering fast, Arthur identified with alarm the onset of what he secretly referred to as Guinevere’s terrier mode. It came into play when she latched onto something and would not let go. It started with an innocuous-looking head tilt, moved into guileless dimples, and then…

“I’m not sure what you’re up to,” said Guinevere, smiling so that the dimples popped in her cheeks. “But I have to tell you, Arthur, that I intend to find out.”

Wham. In for the jugular.

“I’m not up to anything,” he protested feebly, thumbing the tears from his eyes.

“I may be your PA, Arthur,” she added. “But in years gone past I would have been called a personal secretary. Which means you should tell me your personal secrets.”

“But I do!” he lied, wincing.

“And, if you want my advice?” she added, standing to walk out, before delivering her parting shot.

“I don’t, but you’re going to give it to me anyway,” he muttered, pursing his lips and giving his desk a vicious kick that made his toes hurt. "Ow!"

“You’re an architect, right?” she said. “You’ve seen your fair share of mud over the years. If you want to get some practical boots, why don’t you just go to a shoe shop like normal people, and buy some Hunter wellies?”

Arthur sighed.

“Oh, and by the way, I found out what Agravaine was up to.” Turning, she reached for another box, this one heavy with files, and plonked it on his desk with a bang that made him wince. “I suggest you look through the Du Bois Foundation accounts, under ‘Miscellaneous Disbursements.’”

“What?” Arthur straightened in his chair. “Guinevere, you can’t just accuse my relatives of embez--”

“Just look, Arthur.”  An earnest crease puckered her forehead. “That’s all I ask.”

“But, Guinevere, I don’t have ti--”

The door crashed closed.

“--me,” he finished, to the empty room.

“What do you think I should do about Uncle Aggie, Mother?” he said to the portrait of his mother that graced one wall. “He’s your brother, after all.”

His mother didn’t answer, as always, but he played out his conversation with Merlin in his head.

 _Who do you know best, her or your uncle?”_ Merlin had asked. And his own reply about Guinevere: _I’m rather inclined to trust her judgment_.

“Oh, fine.” With a put-upon sigh, he pressed the button on the box file and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers.

~~~

After an eventful week in the office, it was with a sense of accomplishment that he turned the wheels of his newly acquired second-hand Volvo up the lane that led to Merlin’s cottage, late on that Friday night. Merlin would probably be dozing in front of Graham Norton, a glass of beer or cider in hand. He might already be asleep. Arthur resolved not to wake him if he was; Arthur would be quite comfortable sleeping on the floor with the self-inflating mattress and sleeping bag George had procured for him that week, which, knowing George, would probably be more comfortable than his own bed.

Fording the stream in second gear, he pushed on up the hill and stopped by the gate. Its familiar squeak reminded him that he’d brought the WD40 along. It wouldn’t take a jiffy to get that gate working more smoothly, and maybe he could suggest ordering an electronic mechanism for opening it remotely. Merlin would refuse, of course, but once he’d seen how much easier it would make the simple job of entering the farmyard, Arthur was sure that he’d overcome that initial resistance.

As he stepped out of his car, taking care to avoid stepping in anything that could damage his new boots, he whistled between his teeth, wondering which jobs he should start with. Maybe spend some time on building some new cupboards from the kitchen first? And then see what he could do about protecting the walls of the barn that housed the hens. Still whistling tunelessly, he held his hand up to knock, and paused for a moment.

That was strange.

Accompanied by loud barking sounds, angry voices drifted through the door.

Frowning, he lifted the latch and stepped cautiously inside.

A hail of barking - deep woofs from the adult dogs, agitated yips from the pups - was coming from the kitchen. Merlin stood just inside the cottage, back to the door, hands on hips, while a tall, beetle-browed man with shaggy greying hair yelled at him in Welsh. Arthur couldn’t place the man, but he was sure he’d seen him before, somewhere.

The stranger looked up and saw Arthur. Pausing, he yelled an exclamation. The repeated word “fuck” jumped out of an otherwise incomprehensible sentence. He stepped towards Merlin. Once, twice. His jaw jumped.  

“Merlin?” Arthur said, standing up straighter and balling his fists in readiness. “Is everything all right? Is this man threatening you?”

“Arthur!” Merlin sounded shaky. “Everything’s fine, don’t worry.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He pushed past Merlin, standing between him and the other man.

“Honestly Arthur,” said Merlin. “Everything’s fi--”

“Who the fuck is this posh prick, Merlin?” growled the other man, voice pitched low. “You’d better not be doing a deal behind my back, you double crossing little weasel. It'll be the worse for you, if you are!”

“ _Cachau bant_ , Balinor, you don’t get to make my decisions for me any more.” Merlin tried to break past Arthur. He was strong, but Arthur was stronger. Just.

“Merlin is a grown man, and will do any deal he wishes to,” said Arthur, fists clenched, elbows out to keep Merlin from hurling himself at this Balinor. “Whereas you, sir, are a bully and a coward. How dare you stand in Merlin's own home threatening and insulting him?”

“Arthur, wait, it’s not what you think.” Merlin tried again to get in front of Arthur. “It’s all right. Balinor’s my father--”

“What?” Incensed, Arthur turned on the bloke. Sure enough, he remembered now, it was the man from the picture that he’d seen in Merlin’s bathroom.

It was all Arthur could do to stop himself from walloping the git. He glowered at him, instead.

“That’s even worse!” he spat. “What sort of a father do you think you are, standing in Merlin’s living room belittling him?”

“You keep out of this, you slimy English bastard,” yelled Balinor, veins standing out on his neck. “My son knows what’s good for him.”

“Your son is a fine man!’ yelled Arthur.  “He is generous, hospitable, and warm hearted. He deserves better than a father who treats him so shabbily!”

“Arthur! Look out!” cried Merlin.

But Arthur had already seen the intent in the other man’s eyes. Ducking under Balinor’s blow, he grabbed at Balinor's flailing fist and spun him round. With a rough twist, he slammed Balinor face-first up against the wall.

“Bastard,” Balinor gasped. He strained against Arthur’s grip.

“Stop it, Arthur!” Merlin shouted. “It’s not what you think!”

Arthur ignored him.

“You are messing with the wrong guy,” Arthur hissed in Balinor’s ear. “If you dare to hurt Merlin, if I even hear a whisper that anyone has hurt him, or any damage occurs to his farm, I don't care who you are, I will hunt you down and I will wreck you. Do you understand?”

He tightened his grip. Balinor grunted.

“Stop it!” Merlin grabbed Arthur’s shoulders. “Let the bastard go, Arthur. Let go!”

The note of distress in Merlin’s voice finally got through to Arthur.

Arthur released Balinor. Folding his arms, he stood, glaring.

"As for you!” Merlin pointed a trembling finger at his father. “You were a good Da to me once, so I’ll let you go. But the answer is no, and it stays no. I have no obligation to you. You lost all right to that when you walked out on us, when Mum was dying. Now, get out of my house, and don’t come back.”

When she was dying? Arthur’s pulse roared in his ears.

“Merlin, please, I was scared! I thought you'd be better if--"

"How do you think Mum felt? How do you think _I_ felt?"

"You kept pushing me away. You were the one with the nursing training... You made me feel useless! I thought..."

"You thought wrong," cried Merlin. "Jesus Christ, Da! You were the one who walked out! Stop trying to blame me for it! Now get out, before I call the police!"

"Please, Merlin! You’re the only family I--”

“I said, get out!” yelled Merlin. His face was pale, jaw tight, mouth turned down in distress. His eyes glistened in the firelight. “You can fucking rot, for all I care!”

Massaging his wrist, Balinor stooped to pick up a dark brown, stained hat and place it on his head. The door rattled on its hinges when he slammed it closed. From the kitchen, the barking renewed in intensity. Footsteps scrunched on the gravel outside.

“What did he want?” said Arthur, turning back to Merlin. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, probably not gratitude, as such, but still, the naked anger in Merlin’s eyes made him take an involuntary step backwards.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” shouted Merlin, gesticulating at the door. His skin was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, cheeks painted with angry red splotches that highlighted the sharp angles of his face. “I had it covered, how dare you waltz in and take over like that! I had it covered!”

“It didn’t look it from where I was standing.” Stepping forward, Arthur put what was meant to be a comforting hand to Merlin’s shoulder.

“Bloody presumptuous prat!.” Merlin’s face was wet, shoulders hunched and tense. “Everything was fine, I told you, but no, you had to come over all alpha male on me, wading in like a, like a… fucking... a... fucking silverback, you bloody gorilla.”

“He was threatening you.”

“I can look after myself” Merlin’s mouth crumpled. A heavy sob burst from him, and another. “Fuck!”

“Whoa. Whoa, now. Hey.” Arthur’s throat was suddenly tight and he swallowed around a heavy lump that had settled there. He put his arm around Merlin’s shaking shoulders and steered him towards the sofa.

“Fucking interfering clotpole.” Merlin buried his face in his hands.

“It’s okay now.” Not sure what to do with his hands, Arthur settled for a sort of awkward pat on the back. “The bad man has gone.”

“Condescending git. I’m not a fucking child,” came the muffled reply. “Fucking interfering cabbagehead.”

“I know that,” said Arthur, pulse gradually calming. “Idiot.”  

“Dollophead,” sniffed Merlin, face emerging as he patted the table in search of tissues. Blowing his nose noisily, he threw the spent tissue on the fire where it quickly transformed into a ball of flame.

“I meant it though,” said Arthur. His hand still hovered, ready to deliver another awkward pat. Blushing, he ran it through his hair, instead. “What I said to him. I meant every word. If he bothers you again, I’m going after him.”

“I know you did.” Merlin smiled through his tears. “But I can fight my own battles.”

“Talking of which,” said Arthur, “What was that all about?”

“Well, it’s a long story.” Merlin shrugged and stood up, an unconvincing smile plastered across his face. “Fathers, you know?”

“Sadly, I do.” Arthur let out a hollow chuckle.

“There you go,” said Merlin, dashing his eyes with the backs of his hands. “It’s really not all that important. Well. And you haven’t come all the way here to listen to me go on.”

“Indeed, how dare you!” said Arthur, tamping down a sense of disappointment that Merlin didn’t feel able to confide in him. But then again, why should he? It wasn’t as if Arthur didn't have secrets of his own, and anyway it was not really any of Arthur’s business. Trying to lighten the mood, he wrapped one arm round Merlin’s neck, applying his knuckles to the top of Merlin’s head to ruffle his hair. “It’s all me, me, me, isn’t it? You and your real-world problems! Outrageous behaviour!”

“Ow!”  Pushing him off, Merlin laughed. “Prat!”

“That’s better.” Arthur leaned back on the chair, relieved. “And in return I think it only fair for you to listen to the latest update on my sleazy uncle Agravaine and his offshore fund.”

“Jeez, Arthur, you do know how to spoil a guy!” mocked Merlin. “Let me get some hot chocolate in the crock pot. And bring that bottle of cointreau I heard clanking in your bag. I think I’m going to need it.”

“Cointreau is fine fortification against sleazy uncles and such,” agreed Arthur, standing up and stretching. “I’ll make the chocolate, though. I’ve been sitting in the car for hours. I need to stretch my legs.”

“No way!” said Merlin, pushing past him. “You’re not getting the recipe off me that easily.”

They jostled and fought every step of the way, got stuck in the door, and collapsed in a heap on the cold stone floor, with dogs clambering over them in a noisy pile of fur, raucous laughter, and ecstatic licks.

“Ugh! Dog breath!” said Arthur, weak with laughter, face scrunched, turning his head against the stench. “Gwaine you stink!” Somehow he’d managed to end up underneath Merlin, with Merlin’s hands pinning his arms to the floor, and Merlin’s legs entangled with his. Merlin’s breath gusted warm against Arthur’s cheek

When Merlin dipped forward, Arthur turned his head again, and they stayed there for a moment, eyes locked. The moment stretched into another, then another. Heart pounding, Arthur licked his dry lips.

But that’s when Aithusa chose to waddle over and pepper Arthur in enthusiastic doggy kisses.

“Ugh! Aithusa, not in my ear!” he cried, cringing and squirming to get away. “Ah! No! Stop it! Aithusa!”

“Well, I can’t say I haven’t imagined this moment,” said Merlin, staring down at him with a quirk of his eyebrow, then pushing away so that a cool breeze gusted in where his warm torso had been. “But to be honest, I had hoped for rather less in the way of canine interference!”

“Oh, no,” said Arthur, mournfully, gazing down at his feet. Not just because of the disappointment that leached through him at the loss of the moment that they'd shared, pregnant as it was with potential and might-have-beens. But also because, when he finally extracted himself from the pile of warm, shaggy bodies, there were dark-brown chocolate stains all over the uppers of his brand new taupe suede desert boots. “Not again.”

“Ah.” Merlin shrugged. “Oops?”

“You’ll have to tell me the ingredients, now,” said Arthur. “So I can tell my val-- cleaners how to get the mess off.”

“No way,” said Merlin, grinning. “No way am I telling you! I’d have to kill you first. Or failing that, keep you here as a sex slave.”

 _Sex slave._ Shameful heat spread up Arthur’s cheeks and crept behind his ears. _Merlin’s Sex slave._ And a small, secret part of him, the part that had been squashed beneath Merlin’s slender form a few minutes earlier, and still felt the memory of his warmth as a sort of painful yearning sensation, the part of him that was like an empty vessel, suddenly filling with urgency and anticipation, somewhere behind his belly button, squeaked, _yes please_.

And they were on the edge of something he knew it. Something in the push-pull between tension and ease, between teasing and divulgence. Something heady and frightening, a swoop and flutter in his gut, like standing on a precipice with the wind gusting about him. He hadn’t felt it before, not like this, it tugged at his chest and made him giddy and reckless and prone to letting the thoughts in his heart tumble from his lips. He was so close to letting everything spill out of him, as if a key had turned, releasing all the pent-up emotions that he had guarded for so long.

“Merlin,” he whispered.

“Mm?” hummed Merlin, turning. But then, “Aithusa, no!” he cried, bending to scoop up the puppy, who was licking at the mess on Arthur’s shoe. “Oh, God, how much has she had?”

“Just a lick?” said Arthur, puzzled, bereft and yet also relieved at losing the opportunity of speaking out.

“Oh, God, I have to phone the vet, chocolate is toxic to dogs…” grabbing the puppy, still talking over his shoulder, Merlin retreated into the other room.

“What? How toxic?” Alarmed, Arthur followed.

“I don’t know!” A white-faced Merlin handed him the wriggling puppy and scrabbled through an ancient-looking notebook. “Fuck! Why isn’t the vet’s number in here?”

“Why the fuck do you keep the dogs in the same room as a toxic substance, that’s imbecilic!” Arthur’s heart was hammering and his legs felt suddenly weak. “You’re a livestock farmer. Shouldn’t the vet’s number be ready to hand?”

“If you want to help, just look after the puppy and keep quiet!” Merlin was dialing now, his fingers jabbing frantically at the phone. “Because right now your criticisms are not what I need!”

Biting back his retort, Arthur buried his face in Aithusa’s fur. Her little body was trembling beneath his touch, but she seemed well enough to his untutored eye.

By the time the vet arrived, it was well gone midnight. Merlin had fallen asleep in the chair, Aithusa on his lap, her ribcage rising and falling gently, paws reaching through the air as she dreamt doggy dreams.

Merlin slept through the doorbell, so Arthur let the vet in, and led her through to the kitchen to examine Aithusa. Gwaine was at the door of the kitchen, woofing at the visitor, but when Arthur’s companion entered the kitchen Gwaine took one look at her and slunk back to his basket, tail between his legs. Percival and Elena, in contrast, fussed and panted around her legs until she laughed and told them to go back to bed, dismissing them with a pat.

Arthur put Aithusa on top of a pile of newspaper on the floor, where they crouched as Finna conducted the examination.

“I think she’ll be fine,” said Finna eventually, rubbing Aithusa’s belly. “But I’m going to give her a small dose of hydrogen peroxide, to make her vomit.” She gave Aithusa’s ear a final stroke, and then bent to retrieve something from her case.

“That sounds a bit grim!” said Arthur, frowning.

Aithusa, oblivious to her impending doom, whined at the loss of tummy rub. Hastily, Arthur stepped in to pet her with a shush.

“It’ll be over before you know it,” said Finna, with a calm half-smile as she filled a syringe and shook it. “It’ll probably be worse for you than it is for her. As you say, it was only a lick. Chocolate’s toxic, but with such a tiny dose she should be fine. But we should make her sick it up, to be safe. Keep an eye on her, during the night, though. And do call me if she starts vomiting again. But you’ll need to keep the dogs and the chocolate separate from now on. And make sure other toxic substances - grapes, and onions, for example - are kept away too. Merlin knows all this, but he’s not used to puppies. Adult sheepdogs are very well trained, whereas the puppies don’t have any good sense yet.”

“I’ll draw up a list,” said Arthur. He had a lot to learn about puppies, and intended to take his responsibilities seriously. “I’m going to make a few new cupboards, as well, so Merlin doesn’t have to leave things lying on the work surface.”

“Well, I must say it’s nice to see Merlin have such a responsible new boyfriend,” said Finna, blithely, tapping the syringe and inserting it between a struggling Aithusa’s teeth. “He works so hard, that boy, and it’s such a shame to see the farm getting so run down, but he’s got his hands full with that feckless father of his. Hush now, puppy!”

Boyfriend? Arthur was about to correct her, when he thought for a moment about Merlin’s easy smile and his warm humour, and something made him hold his tongue. Besides which, the next few minutes were distracting, though not pleasant. He alternated between making soothing noises and rushing around for old bits of newspaper while Aithusa emptied the contents of her stomach.

And it was only after he’d paid off the still-snoring Merlin’s veterinary bill, and she’d left, closing the cottage door behind her with a quiet click, that he realised he still hadn’t corrected her about being Merlin’s boyfriend, nor asked her about Merlin’s feckless father.

He carefully placed a drowsy Aithusa upon a newspaper-covered cushion on the floor by the fire, and draped a fleece blanket over Merlin’s slumped form. Then he sat by the fire with a book he’d bought online earlier that week in his hand.

“ _Raising Puppies_ ,” it was called.

He thought he probably should read it sooner, rather than later, to avoid any repeats of the chocolate incident.

~~~

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time that he’d gone out shopping. Partly it was his way of rebelling against Morgana, who evidently saw him as some sort of beast of burden, and would drag him out every Saturday if she could, lading him with heavy boxes and bags from most of Knightsbridge and half of Kensington. But mostly it was because he couldn’t bear the crowds that infested London shops - pressing against him with their creaking bags and their shoulders and their elbows. Mostly he preferred to let George do his shopping for him, or else he would purchase things online and get George to stay in for deliveries. It was a privilege, having a live-in valet, he knew that. And he liked to think that he was a good employer. Certainly George seemed happy enough, in the annex that he shared with his goldfish, Mervyn, and Myrtle the iguana.

Today, however, he finally capitulated. If he was going to be able to spend time with Merlin on his farm, he would need a decent pair of Wellington boots.

But the village high street here in Ealdor was nothing like London. For a start off, Merlin seemed to know absolutely everyone - and not only that, but he also insisted on exchanging a few words with every single person that he passed on the street. There was no such thing as a quick visit to the shops, he soon found out, and he hadn’t been prepared for the speed of the local grape vine, nor the rampant village curiosity that followed him wherever he went.

“Morning Merlin,” said a  bald, thick-necked, tattooed man walking a pair of muzzled dogs - what looked suspiciously like a banned breed. “This your new fella, then?”

“Morning Mr Simmons,” said Merlin. “Erm… this is Arthur?”

“Hmm.” Mr Simmons looked Arthur up and down a couple of times until Arthur felt his cheeks heat under the scrutiny. “Finna said he was a posh ‘bastard. You treat our Merlin right, look you, or you’ll have me to answer to.” He shuffled on before Arthur could reply.

“Sorry!” Merlin shrugged apologetically.

“It’s all right,” said Arthur. “I’ve been called worse.”

They were headed to an old-fashioned hardware shop. The shop itself seemed to stock everything from bicycle lamps to hard-core lathing tools. Bewildered by the array of densely stocked shelves, Arthur hovered next to Merlin at the till for a moment or two, but then moved away to run an idle finger over a selection of chisels.

“Hi, Mr Shah!” said Merlin. He leaned on the counter, which was covered in an array of well-thumbed household catalogues. “How’s Sunil getting on at university?”

“Good to see you, Merlin.” said Mr Shah, pulling his spectacles down from his forehead to grin at Merlin. “He is doing very good, thanks. Doesn’t phone often enough, Mrs Shah is not happy about that, but that’s young people nowadays.”

“I was the same at his age,” said Merlin.

“How’s little Aithusa this morning?” said Mr Shah. “Feeling a bit better?”

The word had got round already, it seemed.

“She’s absolutely fine, thanks, Mr Shah. Now, I was wondering if you had any wellies, size nine…”

By the time Arthur had tried on a few pairs of wellies and a couple of pairs of steel-toecapped workboots, which would be better than wellies for the sort of broad-scale carpentry he was going to be doing, it was nearly eleven and Arthur’s stomach was gurgling in hunger.

“See you at choir next Tuesday, then?” asked Mr Shah, putting their purchases in a bag with deft, practiced hands. “Haven’t seen your Da for a while. We miss him in the basses, we do.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Shah,” Merlin replied, face clouding. “Da and I aren’t on speaking terms right now. I’m not sure when he’ll be coming back to choir.”

“Shame.” Mr Shah pushed the package over the counter and Arthur took it. “He was in here earlier, you know.”

“Oh.” Merlin sighed, pushing his hair up onto his forehead. “How much does he owe you now?”

“That Kanan was with him.” Mr Shah shook his head. “He paid off Balinor's bill.”

Merlin’s mouth pressed together as if he was biting back his reply, and his shoulders hunched back up again. He jammed his hands into his pockets and turned towards the door. 

“Goodbye Mr Shah,” said Arthur, steering Merlin towards the exit with one hand, the package containing his boots in the other. “Thanks for the boots.”

“See you Tuesday,” Mr Shah called as they left the shop, door tinkling faintly in their wake.

“Kanan?” said Arthur, once they were outside. “Is that a person or a thing?”

“I’d rather not talk about him.” Merlin shrugged and hunched his shoulders, mouth a thin line, worried wrinkles creasing his forehead. He stalked on ahead, face down, so that Arthur had to scramble to keep up.

Falling into stride again, Arthur tolerated a minute or two of awkward silence before casting about for safer subjects of conversation.

“Choir?” he said eventually, shoving the boot box under his arm as they entered the car park. His stomach gurgled again, louder this time.

“Yeah - I’m in a male voice choir,” said Merlin, looking up and brightening. “Cliche, I know. But it’s pretty much the law around these parts. Unless you’re completely tone deaf, of course. We’ve got a concert coming up soon. You should come!”

“Seriously?” Arthur tried to imagine Merlin on stage, singing with a bunch of burly Welsh farmers and coalminers, and failed. He clicked the key for the Volvo, which chirped in reply. “I never would have thought of you as the sort, really” he added, shrugging. “I mean, I’ve heard the crowd sing _Land of our Fathers_ at Twickenham for the Wales versus England rugby internationals, obviously, but other than that I thought the whole male voice choir thing was strictly for over fifties only. “

“Well, think again, boyo!” Merlin grinned. “Apart from Mr Shah, the only person over fifty in our male voice choir is my D--. Er. Wow, your stomach is like a bloody earthquake! Let’s get you something to eat before you scare the whole town !” He poked Arthur’s still-protesting stomach and then walked round the car to the passenger’s side.

“Ow!” said Arthur, putting his hand on the drivers side door. “It’s been a long time since breakfast!”

~~~

It turned out that the steel toe-capped boots were perfect for spending time in the kitchen and yard, sawing and planing and cutting while Merlin and the dogs were up in the fields with the pregnant ewes. Arthur had found some useful fittings in Mr Shah’s shop, including hinges and some decent sheets of fibreboard, which he used to create the structure of the cupboards. The cupboard doors, though, he fashioned from the oak-veneered timber he’d brought from Leon’s workshop. The time went quickly and he hummed as he worked, until he was ready to attach them to the wall, and start inserting shelves.

He made two cupboards; the first was a corner unit, taller than him, and the second he installed at head height, out of reach of even the most determined puppy. This second unit, he filled with the ingredients Merlin had left carelessly scattered across the work surface: cooking chocolate, sugar. Lurking behind the crock-pot was a half-empty pot of nutella.

 _Aha,_ he thought. _So that’s the secret ingredient._

Having finished off the kitchen cupboards, Arthur set to work on fixing the broken planking at the back of the hen barn, which is where he surmised the fox must have got in. Merlin had taped it over, a temporary measure that would not withstand the predations of a wily animal like the fox. Pulling up the rotten wood around the hole, Arthur replaced this makeshift solution with a neatly overlapping timbers that he’d cut to fit with the jigsaw. Cutting the timbers was the easy bit; sanding them off, and setting them into place with the staple gun, took a little longer.

By the time Merlin returned from an errand high up on the hillside to help his friend Will to retrieve a recalcitrant ewe from where she’d fallen into a deep ravine, Arthur’s gloved fingers were stiff from the cold, and his toes had lost all feeling.

“What do you think?” said Arthur, peeling off his gloves to inspect the raw-pink flesh of his fingers, which he then shoved into his pockets. “I’ve got quite a few wood shavings, thought we could keep them for the hens.”

“You don’t do things by halves, do you?” said Merlin, round-eyed. He stooped to inspect the repaired barn wall. “Looks better than it did before, to be honest.”

“Who is this posh English git?” said his companion, eyeing Arthur suspiciously.

“Oh, Will, this is Arthur,” said Merlin.

“Arthur who?”

“Arthur, um.” Merlin shrugged. “He’s helping me out with some. Um. Carpentry.”  

Flushing, because he still hadn’t told Merlin his surname, or who he worked for, and he realised that he didn’t want to, not right now at any rate, not with Merlin’s brutish mate standing right there scowling at him, Arthur replaced his tools in the boot of the Volvo. Stretching his neck, he flexed his shoulders with a grimace.

“Hmm.” Will’s glare softened a little. “Carpenter, is it?”

Arthur nodded. No doubt on some arbitrary scale of the worth of a man in Will’s head, posh English gits who were carpenters sat rather higher than posh English gits who didn’t carpent. Which, he supposed, given that Will was a baker with a sideline in sheep breeding, was fair enough.

“He’s the bloke I told you about, the one who got stuck in the ford,” Merlin added. “He’s having Aithusa. I’m looking after her for him.”

“Ha!” Will snorted. “Trust you to find a clueless Englishman to buy that useless pup!”

“There’s nothing wrong with a white sheepdog, Will, you stupid twat!” said Merlin, shoving Will’s shoulder. “Anyway, let’s get a cuppa. I’m parched.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Will. “Swansea are playing Arsenal this afternoon. Let’s go down the Queen of Caerleon and watch it on Sky. I could murder a pint. Coming, Arthur?”

“Now, that’s an idea I can get behind,” said Arthur, grinning.

~~~

The Queen of Caerleon, it turned out, was not the sort of establishment that would normally welcome Arthur the Architect. Arthur the Carpenter, however, was more than acceptable, especially when he offered to buy a drink.

Arthur the Arsenal Supporter, on the other hand, would do best to keep his mouth shut. As he made his way past a sea of Swansea City shirts to the bar, Arthur resolved not to look at the TV screen. It would probably not be popular if he started yelling appreciatively at Kieran Gibbs while the rest of the bar stared at him in stony silence.

“Three pints of Brains, please!” he said, trying to look inconspicuous.

“And you are Merlin’s new boyfriend, are you?” said woman who served him. She upended a straight glass and placed it under the pump. “Finna did say you were handsome, she wasn’t kidding, was she?” Slowly, she dragged the pump down. Brown ale frothed into the glass with a satisfying gurgle.

“I… er…” To hide his confusion, Arthur fumbled in his pocket for some cash.

“Don’t be such a tease, Annis!” said Merlin, who had appeared by Arthur’s elbow like a guardian angel sent to protect him from difficult questions. “Arthur’s just helping me out with some carpentry.”

“Ah. Carpentry. Is that what you call it these days?” said Annis, with a knowing leer, plonking the full pint onto the bar and transferring the next glass into place.

“Annis!” It was Merlin’s turn to blush, the colour staining his cheekbones most prettily. “Cut it out!”

“Shame,” she pouted as she put the final glass under the pump. “Your mum would have liked him, I can tell. He has a nice smile. And pretty eyes.”

“I’m standing right here!” protested Arthur.

“Don’t worry, pet,” she said, patting his hand. “We’re very friendly around here. We won’t hurt you. As long as you treat this boy right, that is.”  

“He’s… we’re not…” said Arthur feebly.

“Arthur’s a gentleman,” said Merlin at the same time. “Of course he will treat me right.”

Arthur paid and they turned back to their table.

“And he’s got a gorgeous bum,” Annis shouted after him.

“Don’t mind her,” said Merlin, shrugging. He darted a sly glance at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. “She’s not lying about your bum, though.”

“Merlin!” Honestly, Arthur had never blushed as much in his entire life as he had in the few weeks since he had met Merlin.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Later, when Will got up to get some more drinks, and he and Merlin were both pink-cheeked and blurry-edged from the drink, Merlin turned to him and put one warm hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, you know,” he said. “About yelling at you earlier, and all.”

“It’s all right,” said Arthur. “I’ve been called worse. And I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you know, if you ever do, it won’t go any further.”

“Thank you…” said Merlin. He swallowed, looking down into his glass. “I mean, I didn’t need you to step in and all, but It was good, knowing you were on my side.”

“I couldn’t just stand aside and let that bastard threaten you like that,” said Arthur, throat tightening at the memory.

“Look,” Merlin added, swirling the dregs around the bottom of his pint pot. “I know I haven’t really told you about what’s going on. But… there’s something I need to show you, first. And then, well, I owe you an explanation.”

“It’s fine,” said Arthur, rubbing the back of his neck to hide his curiosity, darting little glances at Merlin’s tense jaw, his pursed lips. “You don’t owe me anything. You have been most generou--”

“And I’m sorry about everyone assuming you’re my boyfriend,” Merlin interrupted, earnestly, accent thickened by the beer, voice sticking a little on the esses. “I didn’t say you weren’t, I’m sorry. It’s just that part of me selfishly wants it to be true.”

Arthur swallowed and leaned forward so that their faces were nearly touching.

“Do you know what,” he said. His tongue felt too large. He poked his lips and teeth with it. He couldn’t feel his lips any more. A giddy sense of recklessness coursed through him, as if he could say anything, do anything, and it wouldn’t matter. “To be honest, I didn’t mind.” His shoulders ached and the room swam alarmingly. “I mean to say, I don’t mind.”

“You didn’t? You don’t?”

“Nope.” Arthur shook his head. ”Nononono. No. Don’t mind in the slightest. Would quite like it to be true, to be honest. Not sure you want a posh git like me as a boyfriend, mind. You don’t know anything about me. I haven’t even told you my surname. I work slow, you see. Relashislips--- relash--- goin’ out with someone. Haven’t done it for a long time, Merlin. But I like you a lot. I do. That’s why I keep coming back.”

He was burbling, he knew. The drink had loosened his brain. It was tremendously liberating.  

“What do they put into this stuff, anyway?” He glanced at his nearly empty glass, and giggled. “Marvellous stuff.“

“You dollophead!” Merlin’s eyes had gone all soft and his mouth looked very pink. A crease marred his forehead “Is that your cock-eyed way of asking me out?”

“Pendragon,” said Arthur, desperate to get that out of the way.

“What?” Merlin looked even more confused.

“S’my name.” Arthur winked and guzzled the rest of his pint. “I run a company, y’see. S’bloody nice beer, this,” he added, apropos of nothing much. The room tilted strangely and he gaped at it. “What have you done to the room?”

“Three more pints of Brains,” said Will, sitting down on the shabby barstool and taking a great gulp out of one of them.

“I think Arthur’s had enough,” said Merlin, pushing away Arthur’s pint to the other side of the table, where Arthur couldn’t reach it. “I would get up to get him some water, but I’m worried he’ll fall over if I move!”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but the room lurched alarmingly again and he shut it.

“Looks like your boyfriend’s a bit of a lightweight, Merls,” said Will, cheerily. “Oh well, all the more for me!”

~~~

Two miles seemed like much further on the way home than it had done on the way to the pub.

“Has someone done something to the road?” grumbled Arthur. “I’m sure it was shorter, earlier.”

“It’s uphill on the way back. Do you good, sober you up.” said Merlin.

“Unfeeling bastard. Making me suffer.”

“Oh, stop complaining,” said Merlin, hitching Arthur’s arm round his shoulder. “At least you’re not carrying a heavy, drunken lump up the hill.”

“M’ not a lump!” protested Arthur.

“All right.” Merlin chuckled. “A heavy, drunken, but very kind and talented carpenter. How can I ever repay you for the new kitchen cupboards?”

“Look after my puppy,” said Arthur firmly. He stumbled a little on a pothole. Righting himself by clutching at Merlin’s shoulder, he added, “And me, when I come and stay. And sing to me. Why don’t you sing for me? Sing me a Welsh song, Merlin. You never sing to me.”

“Fine,” said Merlin, his breath huffing white by the light of his torch against the black backdrop of the unlit lane. _“Pa ham mae dicter, O Myfanwy,”_ he  sang, in a fine tenor, voice ricocheting around the trees in the lane. He pressed his free hand to his chest and then flung it out in a dramatic arc.  

  
_“Yn llenwi'th lygaid duon di?_  
_A'th ruddiau tirion, O Myfanwy,_  
_Heb wrido wrth fy ngweled i?_  
_Pa le mae'r wen oedd ar dy wefus_  
_Fu'n cynnau 'nghariad ffyddlon ffol?_  
_Pa le mae sain dy eiriau melys,_  
_Fu'n denu'n nghalon ar dy ôl?”_

His voice died away into the darkness. Far away, an owl hooted.

“S’very pretty. Y’gotta nice voice,” said Arthur, plodding on in step with Merlin. “Sad though.”

“It’s better when you’ve got the whole choir,” said Merlin. “The bass part is luscious. My Da used to-- I mean. It’s good.”

“Could you teach me? What does it say?” said Arthur, intrigued.

The lane twisted round a corner, gnarled branches dangling over the road, and then plunged towards the inky waters of the ford. Together, Merlin and Arthur splashed across the stream, which lapped cold at the ankles of their wellies. Mesmerised by the flowing water as it glinted by the light of the moon, Arthur stopped for a second, letting the water massage his booted ankles, splashing his feet in time to an inner rhythm.

“Stop sploshing! You’re getting me wet!” said Merlin, laughing. “How old are you! Five?”

“More like thirty-three,” said Arthur. He wobbled and caught hold of Merlin’s waist to keep his balance. His foot sploshed and arms flew out.

“Whoops!” said Merlin, grabbing at Arthur as he flailed. “Careful there! All right, I’ll try to teach you. It’s a love song, see. It’s very sad, The poet is singing for the lover who doesn’t care for him any more. You have to sing it sad, the vowel sounds make it impossible for you to sing it happy. Try it! Sing after me… _Pa ham mae dicter, O Myfanwy..._ ”

“Pa-de-pa-depa dumdumudm-de-dum Mervannoo” sang Arthur, even as he stepped onto the relative safety of the road on the other side of the ford.  

“Oh, god!” Merlin stopped and doubled over, dissolving into into giggles. “That was awful! You’re even more English than I thought!”

“What? It wasn’t that bad!” said Arthur, grinning. “Whoa!” Arms windmilling, he stepped backwards and nearly landed arse-first in the drink. “G’on, let’s try again.”

“It’s a lost cause.” Merlin caught hold of his wrists just in time and tugged him forward. Arthur landed heavily in Merlin’s arms, but by some miracle Merlin didn’t let him go and they stood, panting, locked in a warm embrace, Merlin’s chest heaving in Arthur’s grip.

“M’good at languages, me,” said Arthur, snuggling a bit closer. “Won the German prize in my Prep School, y’know.”

“That good, eh?” Merlin snorted, but didn’t push Arthur away. “Shame you’ve become such a dimwit.” His chest rumbled under Arthur’s gloved hands when he spoke.

“I had moderately competent tuition, at Prep School,” protested Arthur. “Not some sarcastic Welsh bumpkin.”

“Snob!” said Merlin. A lock of Merlin’s hair stuck out from under his hat. It tickled Arthur’s nostrils, making him want to sneeze. He sniffed instead, eyes blurring from the cold.

“Comfy here,” said Arthur, burying his head in Merlin’s soft woollen scarf. It smelt of Merlin’s lavender shampoo. “Smells nice.”

“Come on, prat, nearly there.” With a grunt of effort, Merlin stooped and draped Arthur’s unresisting arm back over his shoulders. “Now repeat after me. _Pa ham mae dicter…”_

 _“Pammy dick hair,”_ sang Arthur.

“No, you dollophead,” said Merlin, with a sharp elbow to the ribs that made Arthur yelp. “You’ll be thrown out of the choir for singing that! It’s _pa ham mae dicter.”_

 _“Palm mee dictair,”_ sang Arthur.

“Marginally better,” said Merlin. “Now add _O Myfanwy_ ,”

“Oh Mervannoo,” Arthur repeated enthusiastically, voice cracking only a little. It was a creditable effort, he thought, but evidently Merlin didn’t agree.

“I give up,” Merlin pushed open the farm gate. Thanks to Arthur’s earlier ministrations with the WD40 it no longer squeaked quite so alarmingly. “Remind me not to let you sing in public.”

“Spoil sport,”  said Arthur. “ _Palm mee dictair, o Mervannooo!_ ”

“Mercy, stop, make it stop!” cried Merlin. “My ears are bleeding!”

Singing and squabbling their way into the cottage, they were greeted by a loud hail of happy barks. A warm feeling settled over Arthur. It went beyond mere contentment. There was ready  acceptance about it that he had not felt for many years, not since his mother had died and Uther, always distant, had turned glacial. And it took a while for Arthur in his sozzled state to identify the strange delight that bloomed in his chest, even as he flung his shoes into the corner and hung his coat up and stumbled across the threshold. When Arthur opened the door through to the kitchen the three pups entered the room, rushing to lick his hand with a chorus of tiny, ecstatic yips. As if they were actually pleased to see him.

And that’s when he worked it out.

Coming home, that’s what it was. It felt like coming home.

He thought about his neat, ordered existence in London. About his lonely, empty, expensive Hampstead mansion, all chrome fittings, unused swimming pool and achingly hip upcycled furniture, and couldn’t think of a single item there that he actually cared about. With the possible exception of his carpentry tools. Many of which were already here, in Wales.

“Well, fuck me!” he muttered under his breath.

 

~~~

 

Orange with rust and flaking, the gate was held by two sturdy padlocks. Merlin struggled for a moment or two to free them, then pushed through, standing aside  to allow Arthur to enter. As Arthur picked his way through the decaying weeds that thrust their jagged stalks up through the overgrown gravel driveway, a sense of anticipation was building in his belly. He had been to enough of these old ruins with Leon to have a gut feeling when that something special awaited him. The foliage on either side of the path, dark green holly and bare, shriveled bramble bushes, crowded across their way, attempting to trip them as they walked on.

“This is it,” said Merlin, with a melancholic shrug of his shoulders. “This is what my father… I mean, it's mine, not his, my mother left it to me. It’s been in my family for generations. This land, I mean. Since before the Norman conquest, Ma always used to say! Except, she didn’t, because she called it the Normal conquest, haha. Family joke, see? And it was lovely once, but that was a long time ago. But it reminds me of her, see?”

It could be lovely again, Arthur thought, as they rounded the corner with Aithusa snuffling around in the undergrowth in front of them at the end of a long leash. A low, crumbling wall barred their entry to the front gardens, which spilled over with unkempt rosemary bushes. The bricks were a warm red, with here and there a coating of white lichen.

The house itself, though, at first glance seemed intact. It was only when Arthur looked up that the bare, blackened ribs of the fire-damaged roof poked through. Fallen slates littered the ground.

“More slates have come down this winter,” said Merlin, shrugging. He nudged at a fallen slate with his foot. “It’s getting more and more dilapidated. The middle of the house is medieval. The cellar’s probably even older. They say there’s treasure buried in it, but I couldn’t find it, not even when Will got that metal detector! Mind you, he did get it off a bloke he’d met in the pub. But, see, I’d love to restore it, before it gets any worse, but I can’t affor… my Da, see--” his voice tapered off.

“I can see why you love the location,” said Arthur. “Wasn’t it insured?”

The view across the valley was stunning, even on a grey, day like this. Wisps of cloud streaked across the distant hills and woodlands, a soothing mix of pale brown, soft grey and muted green. The frosty air made wraiths of the mist that hugged the valley, of the air that he and Merlin breathed out. Far off in the distance, a church bell jangled, but otherwise there was no sign of modern human activity anywhere. The whole place had a timeless air, as if the land had settled into its permanent form centuries ago, and the twenty-first century would pass it by, in the same way that all the other centuries had done.

“It was insured,” said Merlin in a low voice. “But the money… My Da--” he shook his head, eyes developing a glassy sheen.

“It’s okay.” Arthur swallowed. “You don’t have to tell me.” He sighed. “Sometimes our families let us down.”

“What about you, Arthur?” Merlin put a hand on his arm. “How did your family let you down?”

“It’s a less personal betrayal,” said Arthur with a mirthless chuckle. “But I’ve discovered that my uncle is channeling funds from my mother’s charity into his offshore funds.”

“Sounds pretty personal to me,” said Merlin. He patted Arthur’s shoulder, then dropped his hand, clearing his throat. “Posh, but personal.”

“Yeah!” said Arthur. “It won’t leave me destitute, but it’s not what people thought they were donating cash for. But luckily, now I’m on to him, I can put a stop to it. The question is, how? I don’t want to involve the police... ”

“No.” Merlin’s eyes, normally such a playful blue, flattened, greying in the dim winter light for a second, and his brows drew together, darkening his eye sockets..“I can understand that--” Clearing his throat, he bit his lip and then turned away. “Shall we have a look round inside the house? While we’re here I mean? I’d like to know what else is falling down…?”

“I’d love to,” said Arthur.

It wouldn’t be the first ruin he’d visited; many times he’d helped Leon to salvage architectural gems from falling-down mansions. But somehow it was the most homely, despite the dust and the cobwebs that carpeted everything. Here and there the bare bones of the building peeped through - ancient stones and timbers that even today held their position and the structure of the building. He should be wearing a hard hat, indeed in the normal run of things he would insist, but a benign air about the place put him at ease.

The carpets had long since been rolled and stacked, and it was across bare floorboards that he stepped, Aithusa in his arms, taking care to avoid the timbers that had started to rot through. There were not too many - but if the building remained open to the elements for much longer then even the good ones would start to decay.

“This farmhouse - how long has it been derelict?” he said, wiping a finger along the huge,  vintage Dublin sink and wooden work surface in the largely intact kitchen. “There is still a lot that can be rescued, you know.”

“I know.” Merlin sighed, and pointed up at the ceiling where a large damp patch was radiating from a corner. “But it would be so expensive. My Da thinks-- he wants-- with his debts, you see.”

“I see.” Arthur did, he understood a lot more than Merlin was saying. “And this Kanan bloke?”

“That bastard!” said Merlin, frowning. “Gets Da to do stuff for him. Bad stuff.” He opened a cupboard in the corner of the kitchen, peering in behind the beam of his flashlight. Spiders scuttled into the corner of one shelf, but the wood seemed fine. ”Da wants to get out from under his spell. Thinks if I sell this place, I can pay off Kanan for him and be done with it.” Merlin shut the cupboard door, knelt down, opened the cupboard under the sink. “So Kanan, he’s offered me cash. Fifty grand. For the farmhouse and grounds.”

“Fifty grand?” Furiously grinding his teeth, Arthur stared out of the window at the distant hills. “It’s worth at least ten times that.”

Distantly, the sound of a motor turning up the lane disturbed the silence of the house. Aithusa stiffened in Arthur’s arms, whining.

“That’s what I told my Da, see.”  Abruptly, Merlin rose to his knees, and stood, brushing cobwebs off his arms. “But that Kanan…”  he bit his lip. “He said if we didn’t…”

“Did he threaten you?” growled Arthur.

Merlin didn’t answer.

“Jesus, Merlin!” Arthur gasped and ran his hands through his hair. “You have to go to the police!”

“But then what would happen to my Da?” whispered Merlin. His eyes silvered with tears.

Arthur clenched his jaw in frustration. Aithusa was struggling in his grip, now. And that’s when she finally broke free, jumping to the floor, and scampered to the end of her leash, barking furiously.

“What’s the matter with Aithusa?” said Arthur, frowning.

“I don’t--” Merlin’s head swivelled

Just then, the door to the kitchen creaked open. A grim-jawed character strode through the door and banged it shut so hard that plaster popped out of the ceiling, dropping with a hiss onto the bare work surface and floor.

“You!” Merlin cried. “What are you--”

“Well, well, well!” said the newcomer in a quiet voice laden with menace. “Look what we have here! Quite the party!”

His right cheek and brow were criss-crossed by a mess of long-healed healed scars that reached into his scalp and the receding line of his close-cropped hair. The flecks of grey in his beard did not hide the cruelty of his mouth. Heavy-lidded, disdainful eyes glanced around the room as if seeking threats and finding them lacking.

A wicked-looking knife glinted in his left hand.

Heard you’d come up here with your pretty friend,” said the man in a voice laced with sarcasm. “Shut up, you little shit.”  Aithusa’s furious barks ended abruptly with a yelp when his boot darted out and flicked at her. She slunk behind Arthur, shivering, tail dragging between her hind legs .

“ _Cer i grafu,_ Kanan,” cried Merlin, spots of anger livid on his cheeks. “Before I call the police.”

“Go ahead!” Kanan sneered even as he moved closer. “I’m sure they’d love to hear about what your precious father has been doing for me.”

“That’s enough.” Arthur stepped in front of Merlin, pushing him back with a rough hand. “If you harm him, or me, there will be hell to pay.”

“Now, now, there is no need for that kind of talk.” Kanan circled round Arthur, who put out his arm to shield Merlin. “Merlin and I are just doing a deal, that’s all. No need for you to get involved, pretty boy.”

“I told you, I’m not selling the house,” said Merlin, shaking his head. “Not to you, not to anyone.”

“Such a stubborn boy,” said Kanan, with a supercilious leer that made Arthur’s skin crawl. “Such a shame about the fire, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t it be awful if another fire happened, finishing the house off altogether?”

“You bastard!” Merlin forced his way past Arthur, lunging at Kanan.

But Kanan was quicker. Catching Merlin’s fist with one hand, he twisted it up behind his back and aimed the knife at Merlin’s throat.

“Put him down,” cried Arthur, heart in his mouth.

“Make me.” One side of Kanan’s lip curled up and he pressed the knife to Merlin’s throat until a thin line of red appeared at his neck. “I just want what your father owes me. This place should net me a tidy profit.”

Before Arthur could react, Aithusa darted out from behind his legs. Snarling, she buried her sharp little teeth in Kanan’s leg.

Kanan released Merlin with a cry, lashing out at the little dog, trying to dislodge her. But she held on.  

Just then, the door crashed open. Balinor burst in.

“You leave my son alone, you wanker!” he yelled, hurling himself at Kanan, grabbing his knife hand.

“You!” snarled Kanan as they struggled. “What the fu--”

“I followed you, you double-crossing shit.” Balinor forced Kanan’s knife hand out to the side. Kanan directed vicious kicks and jabs at Balinor’s legs. But Balinor held on grimly, forcing Kanan’s hand against the wall. “We had a deal! You said you would leave him alone!”

Grunting, Balinor bashed Kanan’s hand hard against the wall. But Kanan didn’t release his grip on the knife.

Seeing his opportunity, Arthur balanced on one foot. He launched a high kick at Kanan’s knife hand. His steel toe-capped boots met flesh with a sickening crunch.

Finally Kanan let the knife drop. He doubled over, clutching his hand. Staggering forward, he fell to his knees.

Merlin, just behind him, kicked his arse, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

Kneeling on the bastard’s back, Arthur grabbed both his hands and twisted them up behind his back.

“I don’t know exactly who you are,” he said through gritted teeth to the struggling Kanan. “But there’s one thing I promise you. If I ever hear you’ve been back here. If anything bad happens to this house, or to Merlin, anything at all, I’ll find out. And I can tell you something else. I’m going to find the people you have harmed. And together we will take you to the fucking cleaners, you arrogant bully.”

Dimly, Arthur registered a heavy creaking noise above his head.

“In your dreams,” choked out Kanan through the side of his mouth.

“Oh no,” said Arthur, smiling grimly. “In your nightmares.”

“And I’ll bloody help him, so I will. _Cachau bant_ , Kanan. _Ti'n llawn cachu_!” shouted Balinor. “Let you get away with it too long, I have! But by Christ you’ve gone too far this time, see!”

Merlin darted across the room to pick the still whimpering Aithusa up. And that was another thing that Kanan would pay for. Anyone who got off on kicking at puppies deserved to be behind bars.

Suddenly, the ceiling let out another alarming creak. Just above Merlin’s head, the ceiling bulged ominously. Great cracks appeared in the rotten plaster, yawning ever wider. Fragments pinged to the floor.The scuffle must have shifted something in the structure of the house.

“Merlin!” he yelled, one knee still to Kanan’s back. “Merlin! Get away from there! It’s not safe!”

Finally, Merlin looked up, eyes widening in alarm. By his side, Balinor grabbed Merlin’s waist and pulled him towards the door.

“Arthur!” Merlin cried, reaching out with one arm even as Balinor pushed him through the door to safety. “Arthur!”

Cursing, Arthur released Kanan. He stumbled into a crouch. Dived through the door after them.

The house groaned. Arthur cursed inwardly. It was a sound he'd heard before, once, and he had the scars to prove it.

He landed in the hallway. Arms clamped over his head, he hit the wood floor with a bruising crunch, rolling. Curled himself as small as he could.

Just then, something heavy crashed down in the kitchen. Kanan screamed, a horrible sound that was abruptly cut off. A mess of plaster and dust erupted through the door into the hall where Arthur lay. Debris rained on him. A sharp pain in his side made him cry out.

"Arthur! No!" yelled Merlin. 

Arthur lay, heart pounding loud into the sudden silence.

“Arthur!” Merlin’s hands dug under his arms, tugging him to standing. “Arthur, quick! Get away from there! Arthur!”

Arthur swayed, wincing at the pain in his ribs. He put a hand under his ripped jacket. It came back dark and tacky. A fragment of the doorframe lay on the floor next to where he had lain. Fresh bloodstains marred the white paint. It had come down by his chest, sending splinters slicing into his flesh.

“Arthur!” hissed Merlin, guiding him to the front door with warm, trembling hands. “It’s not safe here. Come out of there. Are you hurt? Fuck.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. There was a loud crash, and another ghastly scream echoed from the remains of the kitchen. He stopped. “Shouldn't we…? Is he… I mean--”

“It’s not safe, Arthur. We’ve got to get out of here.” Firm hands tugged at him. Dazed, he stumbled across a floor littered with paint and plaster fragments, out into the clean cold air. It had started to rain. Tasting blood mingled with dust, he spat on the gravel where he knelt, cold-kneed in the damp

“Fuck!” With shaking fingers, Arthur raked fragments from his hair. “Fuck, that was close. Fuck.”

“I’ve got you.” Merlin said, his voice trembling. Merlin’s arm didn’t leave his back. “I’ve got you.”

~~~

“As for your friend Mr Kanan, it seems like he’s broken his arm, and there are multiple fractures to the fingers of one hand. He’s got a head injury, but has regained consciousness,” said PCSO Kara Jones, tapping her clipboard with a bic biro. “The air ambulance is taking him to the hospital right now for observation but we’ll keep an eye on him as well. It seems he’s got quite the list of charges against him, if you’re willing to testify...”

“I’m willing,” growled Arthur.

“And me,” added Balinor, stamping his feet and hugging himself against the cold. "He's no friend of ours." 

There was a sharp tug on the leash that Arthur held looped over his wrist. Looking up, Arthur watched Aithusa for signs of her ordeal. She was sniffing at the long grass. Occasionally, she scrabbled at the dirt with her paws. As far as he could tell, she was none the worse. But thinking of the yelp she’d let out when Kanan’s foot had connected with her tiny rib cage, a deep anger gnawed at him. He pressed his lips together, imagining all the things he’d like to do to Kanan when he woke up.

“I understand you want to press charges?” The PCSO added pen poised.

“I want that bastard locked up,” said Balinor, eyebrows lowering. “He threatened my son.”

“And you’re prepared to testify in court?”

“Aye,” said Balinor. “I want to wipe the slate clean, see. I’ve blighted my son’s life for too long.”

“Da--” protested Merlin.

“No, don’t try to protect me any more Merlin. You deserve better. Your friend there,” he nodded at Arthur. “He made me think. I was a terrible husband to your mother. There’s no reason for me to be a terrible father as well. And then that bastard threatened you… you’re my son, Merlin. It’s time I faced up to my demons and my debts, and started to become a father. I'm sorry, Merlin. From the bottom of my heart. Let me make amends.”

Balinor held out his hand. Tentatively, Merlin shook it. Nodding a farewell, Balinor followed the PCSO and ducked into the panda car, which drove off.

High above them, a buzzard let out a lonely cry, breaking the silence.

“Well, that’s the last time I ignore health and safety legislation,” said Arthur, making a face. He bit his lip.

“You have - you know. In your hair.” Merlin waved his hand vaguely at Arthur’s head.

Ruffling at his own hair, Arthur winced when a shower of plaster fragments splattered onto the ground.

“Yeah.” Arthur mirrored Merlin’s gesture. “You too.”

Merlin leaned forward, rucking his hair this way and that until the white debris stopped falling.

“So. Erm. That talk of. You know.” Straightening, Merlin shrugged. “Ruining Kanan. You know. You could do that?” His eyes looked very blue. “It didn’t sound like an idle threat.”

“Probably.” Arthur shrugged. “I do own the biggest construction company in the U.K. But I've been thinking about the way my father used to do business, and I'm trying to make some changes. I’d like to think that I would find some more ethical way of stopping bullies like him.” He held his breath, wondering how Merlin would respond to this revelation.

“You do?” Merlin’s eyes widened. “Some sort of big cheese, then, are you?”

“Moderately cheddar-like, yes,” conceded Arthur, with a relieved, lop-sided grin.

“Hmm. Golden? Sour at first, and yet addictive?” said Merlin, nodding. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“Whereas you, Merlin, are more like an over-ripe Brie.” growled Arthur. “Soft-hearted. Can’t be left for too long. Prone to making a mess of the kitchen.” Delicious, his sub-conscious added.  

“Well, you were very nearly Swiss cheese after that!” Merlin nodded over towards the house. “You know. Full of holes.”

“Luckily, despite that bastard's best efforts...” said Arthur, wincing as he shoved a hand under his jacket. Sharp pain made him hiss. “...Despite that bastard’s best efforts, I’m still more Gruyère than Emmental.”

“You want to be careful in these parts,” said Merlin, grinning. “We make rarebit out of cheeses like you.”

“What does that even mean?” Arthur huffed out a laugh that was more hysteria than mirth. When he brought his hand back, it was still red with blood.

“Fuck! You’re bleeding!” Merlin’s face fell. “God, why didn’t you say anything, dollophead? You must let me look at that! You should have gone with Kanan in the air ambulance!”

“I’m fine, it’s just a scratch.”

But Merlin didn’t listen. He darted forward to tug Arthur’s shirt out of his trousers, and check the wound, probing around it with careful fingers, but taking care not to touch it. It was a cleanish gash that had already stopped oozing. Somehow the timber had fallen just short of impaling him, as if the house was pulling its punches.

“Jesus! That doorframe sliced right through your jacket! You could have died!” whispered Merlin, fingers trembling as he let Arthur’s shirt drop and pulled Arthur’s coat back round him. “And it would all have been my fault. God. I’m no good for you, Arthur. You shouldn't come here any more.”

“For heaven’s sake, Merlin!” Arthur rolled his eyes. God, the idiot was going to blame himself for everything and try to push Arthur away, he could sense it as surely as he was breathing. And that would be intolerable. “It wasn’t your fault! I am absolutely fine.”

“Look, Arthur, it’s too dangerous for you here, Kanan's cronies will be after you... I’ll understand it if you don’t want to come and stay with me any more--” interrupted Merlin.

“Idiot.” Darting forward, Arthur grasped Merlin’s arms. “You’re so good for me.” He swallowed against the dryness that threatened to close his throat. “You...You don’t know half of it. I have to go back to London today, but I’ll be coming back, next week, if you’ll let me?”

And suddenly their foreheads were touching, and Merlin’s thumb was stroking hot tears away from Arthur’s cheek.

“Clotpole,” said Merlin softly, breathing heavily through his nose. “I suppose I’d better let you come back again. If that’s what you really want.”

“Idiot,” Arthur said again, relief flooding through him like a drug. “Of course it’s what I want. You have saved me in so many ways, don’t you see? You and Aithusa. I couldn’t bear it if...”

“Hush.” Merlin’s cheeks were wet, streaked with dirt and debris, and yet they were still so beautiful. “I’ve got you.”  

~~~

That Monday, Guinevere entered his office in stony silence and sat primly on the chair opposite.

“What?” said Arthur, although she hadn’t said anything.

“Nothing.” She glared at him, forehead creasing.

“Look.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The movement jarred the wound in his side, making him wince. “Whatever it is, you might as well get it over and done with. And then perhaps we can continue with our catch up meeting.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “In that case, you can tell me why you have cancelled your trip to Istanbul next month without consulting me, and asked Morgana to go instead.”

Arthur bit his lip. The trip to Istanbul would coincide with Merlin’s concert, so he had cancelled his involvement. To go to Wales instead. Because, by all accounts, Balinor would be making his big come-back at the concert. And after the events of the weekend, he wanted to keep an eye on Merlin, who was a kind-hearted idiot, who took in complete strangers and fed them the best hot chocolate in South Wales, who clearly had no sense of self preservation, and was equally clearly going to welcome back his feckless father back into his life with open arms. Which was all very well, but Arthur couldn’t help thinking that Balinor would be a whole lot less inclined to relapse into his gambling ways if Arthur was there frowning at him throughout the concert. Or something. He hadn’t quite thought through exactly how his presence would prevent Balinor from spoiling everything, but he was damn well going to the concert anyway.  

“Morgana will do a fantastic job,” he said, crossing his legs with what he hoped was the requisite amount of nonchalance, and his arms as well, for good measure. “She’s really shown her mettle recently. The Avalon project is her baby, really. There’s no need for me to--”

“Also,” she interrupted. “Why George rang me in floods of tears at six o clock this morning to ask what he should do with a pair of ruined suede desert boots and a blood-stained tailored shirt.”

“Surely George can cope with a bit of--”

“He threatened to quit, Arthur.” She pointed a menacing fountain pen in his direction. “At six _a.m._! Six, Arthur! I was at Lancelot’s flat, and instead of… well, I spent two hours this morning talking George out of quitting. Two hours, Arthur. I had plans for those two hours! You owe me.”

“I do, I do,” he said hastily. “I’m so sorry, Guinevere, I--”  

“I’m just concerned about you, Arthur.” Her eyes went all dark and sorrowful, and the eyebrows did that thing where they intimated that her heart was going to break if he didn’t tell her what was on his mind.

Guinevere was a demon when it came to wheedling out people’s secrets. He spared a thought for poor Lancelot, having to stave off the irresistible tug of Guinevere’s myriad empathetic expressions.

“I’m perfectly alright,” he said, not defensively at all.  Alright, a little bit defensively. He uncrossed his arms. “Right. Now, can we get on with our catch-up? Can you just run through this week’s appointments one more time? Board meeting tomorrow, and I’ll need you to book me flights to Aberdeen for Wednesday, returning Thursday. When is Mithian coming in again? Oh, and next week, can we make sure I’m back from Beijing by Friday? Morning, that is. And please put me on the Lufthansa flight, BA gave me food poisoning last time...”

“Fine.” She pursed her lips but looked down at her tablet. “Mithian will be here on Friday. I’ve made a reservation for lunch at the Connaught…”

He sighed in relief, shifting his weight in his chair, but was under no illusions that she had dropped the subject altogether.

Sure enough, at the close of the meeting, she snapped the case of her tablet closed and fixed him with that matter-of-fact smile of hers.

“You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” she said, tilting her head one side. Her face took on a sympathetic air, and she dimpled. God help Lancelot, poor bugger would be mincemeat before the dimples of doom. “I mean, what with this and the Porsche. It’s like you’re having some sort of reverse mid-life crisis. Would you like me to call your GP? Or perhaps a therapist, Dr Aleator is very discreet...”

“Definitely not.” He pressed his lips together to avoid letting it all blurt out. Because Merlin and Aithusa were his, in some fundamental way. Despite his enormous privilege, he’d always had to share everything in his life. This new part of him was still private, still his alone. It belonged to him, and was too young and raw to be passing it around for public scrutiny just yet.

Some time, he promised himself, he would tell her. He would tell her, and Morgana, and his father, too. He’d bring Merlin and Aithusa to one of his father’s infamous Sunday lunches. Merlin would make off-colour comments about the antique furniture, and Aithusa would get muddy pawprints everywhere. Just the thought of an enthusiastic sheepdog running around his father’s pristine kitchen, tongue lolling out in that friendly way she had, with Geoffrey, Father’s elderly and frightfully proper butler, chasing her around with a spoon, made him smile.

Guinevere was looking at him oddly. Hastily, he schooled his features back into a more professional blankness.

“I see.” She got up, nodding. The frown came back. “You don’t have to tell me, of course.”

“Thank you.” Being attuned to her ways, he braced himself for the punchline.

“Oh,” she added, airily, turning at the door. “I almost forgot!”

Liar.

“Your father called. He wants you to go round for dinner on Sunday. I thought you went round yesterday?”

Bingo!

“Ah. No.” He cleared his throat. “Something came up, I’m afraid.” Proud of himself for resisting her answering eyebrow lift, he coughed again, and pointedly didn’t say anything else in explanation.

“I will find out, you know,” she said, exiting the room with a finely timed flounce, leaving the door ajar.

“Not if I can help it,” he muttered under his breath.

The door reopened.

“So there is something for me to find out! I knew it,” she said, with a smirk.

“Damn you and your laser-sharp sense of hearing!” he said, scrunching up a sheet of paper and hurling it at the door.

This time she slammed it shut.

Well, fuck.

~~~

The night before the concert was another Friday night, closer to March than January. Which was just as well, because the ewes were close to lambing, and Arthur knew that Merlin would have precious little time for him once the woolly little things started to pop out.

Arthur had wanted to tell Merlin the words that had been on his lips for so long now. Somehow, with all that had been going on with Balinor and the court case, the time hadn’t seemed right. But today, they were at ease in Merlin’s tiny living room, the sheep had been checked, the hens fed, and the dogs were quiet. They were sitting on the sofa, thigh to thigh, cosy and warm, Arthur tired from a long drive and Merlin from a strenuous day on the farm, but not yet yawning. The timing was perfect.

But by the time he’d opened his mouth, Merlin’s lips were so close to his, and his face had tilted, just so. And it was without thought that Arthur darted forward to close that shrinking gap, and touch the warmth of Merlin’s rich mouth with his own in a sweet kiss that deepened quickly to something more urgent. For a long moment, the room fell silent save for the strident laughter from the telly, and the soft rumbles of approval that made his chest vibrate beneath Merlin’s fingers.

Merlin made a series of tiny sounds, half-cut-off noises that tugged dizzy sensations from Arthur, sharp tingles of pleasure that shot up from Arthur’s chest and belly. He was floating, weightless, devoid of thought, just a mess of heat and tension. Nothing else mattered, nothing but the giddy heat of Merlin’s mouth, the quiet press of his thighs as he moved over Arthur, his weight shifting across to Arthur’s lap. The moment when their groins finally touched, Arthur groaned out loud, rocking his hips in a quest for more pressure, more heat, more friction.

In answer, Merlin dipped forward to fit their mouths back together. It had been such a long time since Arthur had kissed anybody. He abandoned himself to it with a hedonistic fervour that made him feel giddy, living only in that eternal moment, losing his hold on reality, focusing only on the heat and slide of lips and tongues, the firm touch of Merlin's hands, now on his head, now smoothing his flanks, now slipping, teasing, beneath the waistline of Arthur's jeans.  

“Well, now.” Smiling, Merlin placed his forehead against Arthur’s, and his breath gusted hot and impatient against Arthur’s cheek. His skin smelt clean, with a hint of something masculine that filled Arthur with a heady sense of abandon.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur slid his hand lower, from where he had been cupping Merlin’s shoulder, down to his waistline, beneath Merlin’s soft shirt, fingers seeking the heat of bare skin. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Merlin, tugging at Arthur’s Ralph Lauren polo shirt until it came free from his jeans. “What’s important is where it goes next.”  

“I feel I’m taking advantage of you,” said Arthur, swallowing.

“Fuck, Arthur.” Merlin fumbled with the button of Arthur’s fly, and palmed the thick line of his cock through his underpants until Arthur moaned, helpless before the deep sense of need that thrilled through him. “If anything, it’s me taking advantage of you!”

The deep-blue ring around Merlin's pupils, the intent line of his brow, the bitten-pink plump of his lips, succulent and inviting, together presented a clear and open invitation. Arthur's tacit acceptance was immediate and total. Abruptly, he shifted his weight, reversing their positions so that Merlin sprawled back on the sofa, limbs splayed, lips parted.

"I haven't done this for a long time," acknowledged Arthur, brushing their cheeks together so that the soft stubble on Merlin's chin rasped along his jaw, letting a sharp breath betray his growing need as he fumbled with Merlin's clothes, relishing the play of the taut muscles of Merlin's belly beneath his fingertips. "But it's what I want, more than anything."

He turned his head, nuzzling at Merlin's jaw, nipping at the tender round of Merlin's lower lip, gliding his tongue along it, tasting chocolate and Cointreau and salt. 

"Me too," breathed Merlin, nosing at the skin of Arthur's neck. He hissed, throwing his head back against the sofa, eyelids fluttering closed. He rolled his hips into Arthur's hand. "Oh, God. Yes, Arthur." 

By the time Graham Norton had dismissed a hapless audience member with the red button, the telly was blaring to an empty room. Empty, that is, save for Freya the cat, who yawned and jumped onto the vacant sofa, and licked her paws, purring.

~~~

With the imminence of the lambing season, all work on the future of the farmhouse up on the hill was laid to one side. Nevertheless, Arthur was busying himself with constructing a new shed for the farmyard by Tyn y Pant cottage, thinking of a longer term project. He had the germ of an idea, one that would keep Merlin afloat and provide Balinor with an income to clear his debts, without preventing Merlin from caring for the house of his ancestors and the land that he loved.

Stretching out his legs with a groan, before he resumed, he closed his eyes for a second, focusing on the delicious ache that thrilled along his limbs, an echo of the previous night. He hummed as he stretched, mind replaying the events of the previous evening, how all his misgivings and regrets had melted away, swept out by the moment.

And that morning, it had seemed as natural as anything to wake before dawn, cocooned by the covers on Merlin’s bed, nose pressed to Merlin’s nape, hand to his hip. To pull him closer, whispering into the darkness. Run his palm down the warm, firm flesh of Merlin’s flank and rump. Mouth clumsy kisses upon the pale skin of Merlin’s shoulders. Press himself into the tight space between Merlin’s thighs, slowly at first, and then more urgently until they both cried out, overwhelmed.

Perhaps, again. Perhaps, tonight. He hoped so. The thought made his breath catch and his cheeks heat.

Pulling on his ear defenders, he fired up the circular saw and trimmed the edges of a carefully selected plank, before pulling the timber onto the workbench for further shaping with the jig. It was intricate work, and he soon began to sweat despite the coolness of the air.

After a while, he was distracted by a flash of white out of the corner of his eye.

“Aithusa?” Frowning, he broke off his tuneless whistle and clicked off the switch on the jig.

“Merlin,” he yelled, pulling off his ear defenders. Excited yapping filled the yard. “Merlin! I told you to keep the dogs out of the yard - it’s not sa--”

“Well, well, well, little brother.” A pair of achingly expensive boots with needle-sharp heels fetched into his line of view. “So, this is where you’ve been all this time?”

“Morgana!” Dumbfounded, he pushed his eye protection up over his forehead. “Down, Aithusa! Morgana? You're meant to be in Istanbul! What the hell are you doing here?”

“More to the point, Arthur, what the hell are you doing here?” said Guinevere, drawing into view beside Morgana.

Oh, God. A dual-pronged attack.

“I am entitled to a private existence, you know.” Arthur groaned.  “Down, Aithusa! No! They’re boots, not food! And I meant it, Morgana. I entrusted you with the Istanbul trip, and you--”

“Don’t worry about these old things.” Ignoring his question, Morgana bent to fuss behind Aithusa’s ears. Aithusa responded with an enthusiastic lick and furiously wagging tail. “Well, aren’t you adorable? Seeing you, you naughty puppy, explains a lot about why George has been getting all stressed about Arthur’s shoes, recently, anyway. ”

Aithusa yipped, tongue darting out to catch Morgana on the nose, making Morgana smile and her nose scrunch up.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” said Guinevere, stepping beside Morgana with an apologetic shrug. “The client had to postpone, and we were worried about you, that’s all. And when I picked Morgana up from the airport, the sat-nav woke up and started saying _‘you have reached your destination’_ over and over again.” She  stopped to draw breath.

“Bloody thing,” agreed Morgana. “It’s been driving me bonkers, ever since you broke it.” She glared at him.

“That wasn’t my fau--”

“But we couldn’t turn it off!” said Guinevere. “And then we looked at the co-ordinates that it was flashing up. And we realised how close they were to where you were meant to come at New Year. We thought you must have come here, and we were worried about you! So we thought…”

“So you thought you would spy on me!” said Arthur, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t be like that, Arthur!” admonished Guinevere. “We were worried.”

“So I gather.“ Frowning, he took the blade off the jigsaw and replaced it in its case..

“And then we got here,” Guinevere went on. “But there was no-one in. We saw your car, you know, your Volvo, so we knew it was the right place. We could hear the noise of the saw in the yard, but there was no-one answering the door at the cottage. And this little pup was crying to be let out… so we…”

“That’s breaking and entering!” Closing the jig blade case with a snap, he rummaged in his tool box for a piece of coarse sandpaper. He fitted it onto the sanding block and pulled it across the cut edge of the wood with swift, economical strokes.

“The door was unlocked!” she cried. “And then we saw you, or rather heard your sawing, over here. Is this the B & B you stayed at over New Year? I must say, it’s not what I was expec--”

She was interrupted by a cacophony of loud woofs as Gwaine and Percival streaked past towards the cottage, tongues lolling out, shortly followed by Merlin, long legs striding across the yard, curiosity writ large all over his face.

“Arthur? Oh, hi! Hello! I’m Merlin!” Merlin smiled and held out a hand for Guinevere to shake, before thinking better of it and withdrawing it. “Oops, best not, I’ve been out with the sheep, haha. Let me wash my hands first. I wasn’t expecting visitors, though, are you here about the puppies? I’m really sorry, they’ve both gone already. But maybe I can get you something to drink for your trouble? Arthur are you okay? You look like someone’s just put sheep dip in your hot chocolate, haha, not that I’d really do that--” Still chattering, he rinsed his hands under the cold external tap and then wiping them on the rag that hung outside. “I’m sorry, Aithusa’s not for sale, she’s adopted this clotpole, no idea why, haha. Lovely to meet you!”

“Well, hello,” drawled Morgana. “It’s lovely to meet you, too, whoever you are! And your puppy. And tell me, just how do you know Lord Pendragon? Pray tell!”

“Lord Who?” Merlin frowned. “Arthur?”

“Lord Pendragon, of course!” Morgana smiled sweetly. “Lord Arthur Pendragon, Marquis of Camelot. Eldest and only son of Uther, Duke of Camelot. Although I think I shall call him Lord Arthur Clotpole from now on, it suits him, thank you for that.”

“Marquis?” Merlin’s face scrunched in bewilderment.

“Oh, God.” Arthur buried his head in his hands and wished to be somewhere else entirely. Timbuktu, perhaps. Or Tel Aviv. There must be somewhere beginning with T, somewhere other than Tyn y Pant farm anyway, that wasn’t infested with nosy PAs and evil sisters. “Morgana, you really are the most annoying sister in the history of the entire--”

“Now, now, little brother,” she purred. “This really is interesting. Merlin, here, doesn’t really know who you are, does he? I wonder why that is!”

“Oh!” Merlin’s expression cleared for a moment and he pointed a trembling finger at Morgana. “You’re the terrifying sister. And Arthur? Marquis? Oh! God, what have I done? I… I… ” His hands few up to his face, and for a horrifying moment Arthur thought Merlin was going to tell Morgana what had happened last night. “I called him a big cheese!” he blurted out.

“It’s just a label,” said Arthur, letting out a relieved sigh. “I’m still me. It’s just that our father is an even bigger cheese. Like… like… a parmesan or something. And Morgana...”  he groped around for a suitable cheese to describe his sister. “What’s the name of that cheese they won’t let you take on the Paris metro because it’s so obnoxious?”

“Arthur!” Morgana slapped his arm.

“Ow!” He rubbed his arm in mock hurt.

“Oh, I know that one, it’s _Époisses de Bourgogne_ ,” supplied Guinevere, nodding. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of everything, as far as Arthur could tell. “It stinks like a farmyard.” She looked at Merlin, eyes widening in alarm. “Oh no! I mean, not this one, obviously! This farmyard is very fragrant and lovely, especially compared to the big cheese! Or, I suppose we could call it _le grand fromage_...”

“Ah.” Merlin was smiling at her. “And you must be?”

“I’m Gwen!” She stepped forward and dimpled at him. “Arthur’s PA although he keeps threatening to promote me, which would be awful, haha. Anyway, Arthur always calls me Guinevere, heavens only knows why. It makes me sound like I’m some sort of a medieval damsel in distress, and I’m not really distressed. Really! I mean, I’m quite happy, most of the time. Except when he doesn’t tell me things I need to know, like where he is, and why he’s not at a meeting. And when he broods. He’s a terrible brooder, don’t you think? Mind you, not that there’s anything wrong with brooding, I mean--”

“Ah, Gwen!” Merlin dimpled back, eyes shining in delight. “So _you’re_ You’re the long-suffering PA! Has he given you a medal yet? Can Marquises give medals? I reckon you probably deserve one, hahah. I’ve heard so much about you! Well, about your car, anyway, haha, Arthur’s not very complimentary about it I’m afraid, but then again, he can be a bit of a dollophead can’t he? I mean, fancy calling you _Guinevere_ all the time when Gwen is so much nicer!  I’m Merlin! I’m a farmer, or rather a shepherd, see haha. I mean, not that you can’t be both. It’s kind of a--”

“Haha! _Dollophead!_ I love it!” Guinevere, or rather, Gwen, erupted into a cascade of giggles that made her double over in glee. “That’s brilliant, I must remember that one! His friend Leon calls him emotionally constipated--”

“Emotionally constipated!” Merlin’s eyes disappeared in the way that they did when he was about to say something really cheeky. “Oh my God, that describes it perf--”

Scowling, Arthur zoned them out as they talked over each other nineteen to the dozen. After about five minutes of non-stop chatter and giggling, mostly at his expense, he exchanged a raised eyebrow and helpless shrug with Morgana. He should have realised that Guinevere—sorry, _Gwen_ —and Merlin would be kindred spirits.

He was sure there had been a reason why he hadn’t introduced them to each other before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was. To be honest, he was surprised that the farmyard didn’t implode under the force of the combined wattage of all that charm, and all those dimples and smiles. Maybe that was it. The space-time continuum should thank him for keeping them apart, to be frank.

Sitting back on his stool, he started sanding off the cut edges of the wood. Might as well use the time effectively, before daylight started to fade.

It took a moment or two before he realised that the yard had gone silent. When he looked up, even the dogs were looking at him expectantly.

“What?” he said, frowning.

Gwaine yawned, tongue flopping out, and then lay down on the floor. Aithusa pounced on him.

“Oh, Arthur,” said Gwen, with a long-suffering sigh. “When you’re doing woodwork, you might as well be on another planet.”

“I know.” Merlin was looking at him with his head tilted and that dewy-eyed expression that made Arthur forget his train of thought for a moment. “But you should see what he’s made for my kitchen.”

“It’s all right, little brother.” Even Morgana’s expression had warmed. “I think I’m beginning to understand.” She pushed herself up off the gate post where she’d been leaning and tossed her hair so that it spread out over her shoulders. “Now, what was it you were saying about hot chocolate, Merlin? I rather think I like that idea.”

“Oooh, yeah, it’s my speciality, you know? Follow me!” he said, turning to open the front door of the cottage. “Oh, and are  you busy tonight? It’s just there’s a concert in the village, and it would be really lovely if--”

“Oooh!” squealed Gwen, clapping her hands. “I’d love that! What sort of a con--”

“Male voice ch--!”

“Oh, how Welsh!” Gwen reached out her arm, which Merlin took, and they stepped towards the house like that, arms linked, as if they’d known each other all their lives. “Merlin, that’s amazing! My fiance, Lancelot, he’s half Chilean, he sings too. Ooh perhaps you’d like to meet--”

“Chilean? Wow, is he devastatingly--”

“Yes, absolutely dreamlik--”

The door closed on their chat. Arthur stared after them, open mouthed.

“What just happened?” he wondered out loud.

“I think,” Morgana tugged at his arm. “In modern parlance, they would say that your boyfriend and your PA have just become BFFs.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Arthur didn’t say.

Oh, God. He was in deep trouble now.

“It’ll be all right, little brother.” She smiled at him in the same way that a shark might grin just before burying its teeth in an unsuspecting surfer’s leg. “I’m sure they’ll love exchanging stories about you.”

“God help me!” Groaning, he ran into the cottage, sending the stool clattering down to the ground in his wake.

~~~

The concert took place in a draughty village hall, all wooden floors and industrial pink paint, decked out with bright flags, Welsh dragons rampant on greensward. Chairs had been set out in rows for the audience, a good two hundred people or so, and an expectant murmur in mingled of Welsh and English hummed round the room. In one corner, an enterprising villager had a trestle table where Brains finest bitter was dispensed from a keg into plastic pint glasses. Thus suitably refreshed, the good members of the public settled down, pints in hand, cheeks pink.

Arthur, Gwen, and Morgana sat down about four rows back and examined the home-made program, which was all in Welsh, so they were not much the wiser, although Merlin’s name was recognizable next to the third entry. But luckily, when the choirmaster finally came on stage, he did all the announcements in both English and Welsh.

The choir opened with _Myfanwy_. Morgana and Gwen were rapt, hands grasping the arms of the cheap plastic chairs in the concert hall. Arthur didn’t think they’d noticed him mouthing his basic not-quite-right Welsh words in time with the choir. But later, when the choirmaster stood up and announced that Merlin would be singing a solo called _Hiraeth_ , his heart nearly stopped. Merlin hadn’t warned him about this!

“As you all know, Hiraeth is a song about longing,” said the choirmaster. “It’s an old favourite of the choir, and I hope you all enjoy it. Our Merlin, here, will sing it for you. We hope you agree he’s got a fine voice for such a youngster.”

Longing, indeed. How apt, thought Arthur, as Merlin launched into a glorious rendition, hands tucked behind his back, eyes trained studiously on the back of the hall. How apt, that such a song, with such a subject, would be sung by such a man. Arthur’s heart swelled with the music, until in the fading notes he thought it might burst. Fishing surreptitiously in his pocket for a tissue, he mopped at his cheek. Something, some dust or a speck of sawdust, or smoke, perhaps, must have irritated his eye.

There was a breathless hush, and then the audience burst into rapturous applause, Arthur among them, beaming with pride.

And he thought he’d got away with it, he really did, because surely Morgana and Gwen were watching the performance, not him?

~~~

“Arthur! Gwen! Morgana!” Equipped with a pint of Brains in one hand and his Myfanwy teddy bear raffle prize in the other, Merlin bounded up to them after the concert, eyes sparkling. “How did you enjoy--”

“I think I lasted about one minute before I started to cry,” said Gwen. “And then, I was actually sobbing brokenly, by the time you finished your solo. How can you do that? I don’t know any Welsh, so I don’t even know what you were singing, and yet--”

“Oh, _Hiraeth_ is a very sad song.” Merlin nodded, a delighted smile playing about his lips, seemingly ecstatic that he’d made the audience sob with his pitch-perfect solo and the whole rousing melody thing that Arthur would never, ever admit to enjoying. Well, maybe a bit. “But I’m so pleased you liked it. How about you, Arthur?”

“Ahem,” Arthur cleared his throat. “It was very nice.”

“Nice?” Morgana snorted. “I saw you weeping into your hanky during Merlin’s solo, Arthur, you’re not kidding anyone.”

Really, sisters were the most annoying relatives ever invented.

“Really?” said Merlin, blushing and biting his lip, the delighted sparkle in his eyes softening to something sweeter and more hesitant. “You liked my singing, Arthur?”

“You know I like your singing.” said Arthur, speaking through a suddenly dry throat. He coughed discreetly to clear it again before opening his mouth to speak, but Merlin was still looking at him, and what with one thing and another, he quite forgot what he was going to say.

The truth was that he liked pretty much everything about Merlin, even his messiness and inattention to order, which gave Arthur something to do, and made him feel needed in a way that he never had before, but the fact was that he had no idea how to express all this. And anyway, now wasn’t the time.

“You know I do,” he added, lamely, instead.

Thankfully he was rescued from an awkward moment by the arrival of the choirmaster.

“Ah! Merlin! There you are, boy,” he said. “Come along, the mayor wants to talk to you…” and with that, he dragged an apologetic-looking Merlin off to talk to some local dignitary or another. Something twisted in Arthur’s chest as he watched him go.

 _Hiraeth,_ indeed.

He nearly leapt out of his skin when Gwen touched his shoulder.

“Bloody hell, Gwen!” he said. “You nearly made me spill my beer!”

“Oh, Arthur.” She shook her head, all sympathy and bouncing curls. “You’ve got it bad, haven’t you.”

“What?”

“There’s no point in denying it, little brother,” said Morgana, on his other side. Bloody hell, he was trapped. “Anyway, I think he’s good for you.”

“Yeah.” Arthur sipped at his beer, to hide the blush that seeped up his neck and threatened to overwhelm his cheeks. “Yeah, I know.”

“Yes, he’s adorable, plus you’ve finally stopped calling me Guinevere!” said Gwen.

When Merlin came back, he had Will with him.

“Holy crap, Merls, when you said you had guests, you didn’t tell me you’d invited some posh totty!” said Will, leering at the front of Morgana’s blouse. “Hello, ladies!”

“Will, you sexist twat.” Merlin thumped him on the shoulder. “Morgana, Gwen, this is my friend William. He’s a deeply flawed character, but he’s got his good points, if you look hard enough.”

“I’d really rather not,” said Morgana, in an icy tone.

Just then, Merlin’s eyes widened as he focussed on a spot just over Arthur’s shoulder. Turning to see what had got his attention, Arthur bit his lip as Balinor strode up to them, twisting his hat nervously between his fingers.

“Good evening, Arthur, Merlin, William, ladies,” said Balinor, extending one hand towards Arthur and nodding at Merlin and the others.

“Good evening, Balinor.” Arthur shook it cautiously. “Congratulations. It was a very rousing performance.”

“Da has been rehearsing with us for a couple of weeks, now,” said Merlin, smiling widely and rubbing the back of his neck in that way that meant he was nervous as hell. “It’s good to have him back.”

“It’s good to be back,” said Balinor. He put his hat on. “Merlin did amazing with that solo, didn’t he? I am so proud of you, my son."

"Thanks, Da." Merlin gazed at the floor, probing an uneven floorboard with one foot as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Anyway…" Balinor cleared his throat. "Ahem! I just wanted to say… thank you, Arthur.” He stared at a point just to the right of Arthur’s eyes, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“You’re welcome.” said Arthur. “Although I have to say your courage and hard work were ninety per cent of the battle.”

With Balinor’s help, they had them found some half dozen people that were willing to testify. People that Kanan had been exploiting through a variety of protection rackets, gambling rings and other scams. It was enough evidence to prevent him from being released on bail, and hopefully they would secure a conviction. It had taken a bit of time, and he had privately pulled some strings that neither Balinor nor Merlin knew anything about.

“Aye, but it was you who set me right, see, boyo,” Balinor went on. “I should have known years ago that the only way to get Kanan off my back would be to get the police to talk to his other victims. I wouldn’t say it’s going to be easy, mind, but I can see that maybe one day, if I work at it, I’ll have my life back. My life. My village. My son.”

He coughed. Nodding at everyone again, turned and strode out into the dark.

“Spill the beans, little brother.” Morgana trained eyes like green gimlets on him. “What was that all about?”

“Hmm?” Arthur shrugged and examined his fingernails. “I really have no idea.”

“Arthur!” Merlin was tugging him away. “You must come and meet Uncle Gaius. And Auntie Alice. Come on!”

By the time they left the Village Hall, Arthur felt like he’d met everyone in the village. It took forever to drag Merlin away. And the funny thing was, that he didn’t mind at all.

~~~

The first time Arthur saw a lamb being born, he thought he was going to be sick.

They were out in the fields. A fine, grey mist stole their breaths in the damp air, leaching sound and colour from the hillsides. Stamping his feet and blowing on his gloved fingers against the cold, Arthur watched from a safeish distance with Morgana.

It was one of the older ewes, and Merlin had reassured him that it would be fine, that she _knew what she was doing, this old girl, she was a sturdy bird, or rather ewe, not bird, haha, because lambs not eggs, see?_

But when the little feet appeared, it seemed so jarring, so wrong for a moment, that it felt like a jolt to his stomach, and he turned away, holding a hand to his mouth.

Gwen, however, had no such compunction.

“So they come out feet first?” she was saying, wide-eyed, kneeling close to the ewe with no thought to the cold that must have been seeping through the knees of her trousers. “Not like humans, then. I mean, that’s not unheard of, but mostly humans come out head first. Well, sometimes they come out bottom first. And if the arms come out first that’s a bad thing, I know that.”

Since when had Gwen become so knowledgeable about childbirth? Struck by a sudden thought, Arthur glanced down at her belly and then away.

“Well,” said Merlin quietly, intently watching the ewe from where they were standing a few feet away on clean straw. “They do come out head first, mostly, if it’s going to be straightforward, anyway. Those are forepaws, thankfully, and they’re the right way up. So we won’t need to call the vet out, she’s doing great. Should be straightforward.”

So, yes, at first Arthur felt a little queasy, but it could not have been more than about half an hour before two woolly lambs joined their mother, staggering on unsteady feet while she licked them down. Their high-pitched bleats joined her deeper ones, a miniature ovine choir.

After Merlin had checked the ewe over, issuing instructions to a surprisingly competent Gwen, they all stood back for a moment. The lambs nuzzled their mother and began to suckle. A look of intense wonder stole over Gwen's face. Even Morgana was quiet. She hadn’t issued a single sardonic comment all morning. And that in itself was a miracle, right there.

“Do you get many city types, coming down here for the lambing?” said Arthur. The germ of the idea that he’d had for Merlin’s farm was beginning to swell now.

“No?” said Merlin, surprised. “It’s nothing special, you know.”

But later, when Arthur surveyed the growing number of fluffy little creatures that dotted the hillside, he found himself begging to disagree.

~~~

_Three Months Later_

~~~

The casual visitor might not have detected anything different about Merlin’s kitchen. Not, that is, until they opened a cupboard door, to discover the neatly arrayed shelves. Or maybe they might have noticed the new saloon-style door that led out into the yard, with its carefully fitted lower half that allowed dogs to enter and exit as required, or the fact that the pots of herbs along the windowsill were actually alive. The wooden work surface, newly sanded and varnished, glowed a soft gold by the light of the new, energy-saving lightbulbs. Arthur had left subtle clues to his regular visits throughout the cottage.  

The two men stood together, side by side, in the kitchen.

“Leon’s much nicer than you,” said Merlin, spooning half a jar of Nutella into the crock pot and giving it a stir. “I didn’t know that people as nice as him went to posh schools.”

“I’m nice!” protested Arthur, putting the lid back on the jar and giving it a wipe with a damp cloth, before placing it back in the cupboard, on the shelf labeled “Condiments, N to S”.

“No you’re, not.” Arching an eyebrow, Merlin flicked an appreciative glance down Arthur’s torso, his lips giving playful little twitches. “Just as well, given what I’ve got planned for you later.”

“Strumpet.” Despite himself, Arthur blushed.

Striding to the fridge, Merlin grabbed a pot of double cream and emptied it on top of the Nutella.

“Your cholesterol.” Arthur shuddered.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” said Merlin adding a large heaped tablespoonful of sugar. “A treat every now and then can’t hurt.”

“I’m thinking of Leon’s waistline!” Seeing the careless way that Merlin stirred the pot, Arthur stooped in with the cloth again, dabbing at the work surface. “It’ll stain, you know!”

“Mmm!” Merlin tilted his head onto one side, with a half smile. “So, tell me again, how will this whole working-farm hotel thing work, exactly?”

“Just wait til you’ve seen the plans!” said Arthur, earnestly. “The old farmhouse is completely isolated from civilisation, no mobile signal, no Wi-Fi, no TV. No trains, planes or cars. No clients, no suppliers, nada. Just the sheep and the birds and the trees and the whispering breeze. You know. A complete escape. Do you know how much people like me will pay for that?”

Merlin shrugged, pressing his lips together, as if to say that English people were all crazy.

“And then there are the sheep. Baby lambs, Merlin! Baby lambs, and collie puppies… people like me, we’ve never seen anything like that! You saw how Morgana and Gwen reacted! Watching you and the dogs herding the sheep, as well. It’s extraordinary, and life-enhancing.  There’s such a market for that. And as for the farm house and the hospitality… You’re so good at looking after people, although obviously I’ll never admit I said that in public”

“Obviously.” One of Merlin’s hands snaked round Arthur’s shoulders, the other threaded through Arthur’s hair, tugging his face closer. Their lips met, and for a moment or two, Arthur ran out of words.

“I get it,” said Merlin, eventually, breaking the kiss. He cupped Arthur’s cheek, tracing soft circles on Arthur’s earlobe with one finger, making Arthur shiver, suddenly giddy. “It’ll be nice to meet new people, too. Especially if they’re as nice as Leon…”

“Leon, Leon, all I hear is Leon,” Arthur growled.

“You’re so sexy when you’re jealous,” said Merlin, grinning. “Your eyes go all blue and your jaw clenches. So rugged.”

“I’m not jealous,” said Arthur, pressing Merlin up against the work surface and abandoning his damp cloth to press hot kisses to Merlin’s temple and cheeks. “I am, however, impatient.”

“Wait!” Turning, Merlin surveyed the contents of the crock pot, and dipped in one finger, licking it with a hum. “Mmm. Just right.” He put the lid on, snapping closed the clips, and set the timer for two hours. “What time did you say he would get here?”

“In about an hour,” said Arthur, checking his watch. “More, if the traffic’s ba--mmfff!”

This time Merlin’s mouth crashed onto his with no thought for elegance or finesse.

Two minutes later, the kitchen was empty. Silently, the scent of chocolate percolated through the air.

~END~

 


	4. Gaeaf

_Epilogue_

_Gaeaf (Winter)_

~~~

_The house sprawls across the land, as if, tired, it simply lay down where it decided to rest. Its windows stare out across wide fields that are dotted with sheep and lined by the brown-grey splinters of the bare, winter hedgerows, here and there intertwined with glossy green holly. A row of forested hills, pale grey with distance, blends with the slate-grey clouds at the horizon, as if heaven and earth have fused._

_The silence is broken by a rustling in the attic. The squirrel pokes her nose out of the dray, and sniffs the air. Away she scampers, limbs splayed across the ivy as she scurries to the secret spot where she has hidden her pine cones. But voices and a fanfare of barks startle her. She scuttles back to her dray._

_Footsteps draw nearer, scrunching on the gravel at first, then softer upon moss. An exclamation where the brambles that obscure the doorway drag a thin red line across a man’s forearm. A peal of laughter._

_Two men stand on the threshold, one crowned with messy, midnight curls, one with hair the colour of spun gold._

_Their hands are linked._

_Sunlight spills out from behind a cloud._

_The wait is over._

 

 

~END~

**Author's Note:**

> **Authors Notes**
> 
> My sincerest apologies to any Welsh speaking readers out there if I have got anything wrong about your glorious language - I was unable to find a Welsh speaking beta, and therefore have relied heavily on assistance from the internet.
> 
> Here are some of the treasures that I found.
> 
> **Treorchy male voice choir sings Myfanwy**
> 
> <https://youtu.be/_RjRicjIaKI>
> 
> **_MYFANWY_ **
> 
> _“Paham mae dicter, O Myfanwy,_  
>  _Yn llenwi'th lygaid duon di?_  
>  _A'th ruddiau tirion, O Myfanwy,_  
>  _Heb wrido wrth fy ngweled i?_  
>  _Pa le mae'r wen oedd ar dy wefus_  
>  _Fu'n cynnau 'nghariad ffyddlon ffol?_  
>  _Pa le mae sain dy eiriau melys,_  
>  _Fu'n denu'n nghalon ar dy ôl?”_
> 
> **English translation:**
> 
> Why is it anger, O Myfanwy,  
>  That fills your eyes so dark and clear?  
>  Your gentle cheeks, O sweet Myfanwy,  
>  Why blush they not when I draw near?  
>  Where is the smile that once most tender  
>  Kindled my love so fond, so true?  
>  Where is the sound of your sweet words,  
>  That drew my heart to follow you?
> 
> **Morriston Orpheus Choir sings Hiraeth (soloist the magnificent Ken Williams)**
> 
> <https://youtu.be/ILTARi9RNvI>
> 
> _**HIRAETH** _
> 
> _Dwedwch, fawrion o wybodaeth_  
>  _O ba beth y gwaethpwyd hiraeth;_  
>  _A pha ddefnydd a roed ynddo_  
>  _Na ddarfyddo wrth ei wisgo._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Derfydd aur a derfydd arian_  
>  _Derfydd melfed, derfyddsidan;_  
>  _Derfydd pob di elldynhelaeth_  
>  _Eto er hyn ni dderfydd hiraeth._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Hiraeth, mawr a hiraeth creulon_  
>  _Hiraeth sydd yn torri ’nghalon,_  
>  _Pan fwy’ dyrma’ ’r nos yn cysgu_  
>  _Fe ddaw hiraeth ac a’m deffry._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Hiraeth, Hiraeth, cilia, cilia_  
>  _Paid â phwysgo mor drwm arna’,_  
>  _Nesa tipyn at yr erchwyn_  
>  _Gad i mi gael cysgu gronyn._
> 
>  
> 
> **English Translation:**
> 
> **LONGING**
> 
> Tell me, masters of Wisdom from what thing is longing made;  
>  And what is put in it that it never fades through wearing it.
> 
> Gold fades, silver fades, velvet fades. Silk fades,  
>  Everything fades - but longing never fades.
> 
> Great and cruel longing breaks my heart,  
>  When I am sleeping at my heaviest at night.  
>  Longing comes and wakes me.
> 
> Go away longing and don’t weigh so heavily upon me,  
>  Let me have a moment of sleep.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> **Other Welsh phrases used in the story**
> 
> “ _Helo? Mae'n ddrwg gen i, nid wyf yn siarad Saesneg. Mae'n hwyr. Ffoniwch yn ôl yn y bore?”_
> 
> Hello? I'm sorry, I do not speak English. It's late. Call back in the morning?
> 
>  
> 
>  _Cachau bant_ , Kanan. _Ti'n llawn cachu_!”
> 
> Fuck off, Kanan. You’re full of shit.
> 
>  
> 
> _Cer i grafu_
> 
> Piss off (literally: go and scratch)


End file.
